


I'll Fight For You

by EmilysRose



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: AU from another book's universe, Anal, F/M, Healing, Kinky sex, Lots of Sex, MMA fighting, Porn With Plot, Violence, bjs, neck biting, no magic, previous domestic violence, shared past trauma, soulllllmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 43,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23799991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilysRose/pseuds/EmilysRose
Summary: Rhys's face is serious as he grabs mine and holds it gently in his hands. “When we met, we were two injured people, trying to keep the real out of our lives.” His words surprise me, and my mouth opens. But he keeps going. “I’ve never been a big believer in destiny, Feyre, but I didn’t even know I was missing something—or that I was slamming my damn head against the wall, going nowhere fast—until I met you. You’re… you’re it for me. You’re my soulmate.” My stomach plummeted at his words, and the fierce honesty in his face. “As sappy as it sounds, it’s god damn true. Nothing has ever been truer in my life. So no, I’m not worried about this fight. I might backslide, but I’ll heal from it. Like you’ll heal from it. And together, we’ll make something worth fighting for.”
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Morrigan/Female OC, past Feyre Archeron/Tamlin
Comments: 12
Kudos: 96





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Alllriiiggghhtt
> 
> This is the slow-burn part of the fic. The rest is Porn With Plot. I read a book a really long time ago, can't remember the name of it, but this fic follows that book's world (if you recognize it let me know, I wanna read it again!) For those of you who don't like Tamlin/Feyre--the beginning is the only part where they're vaguely together. This is a pure Rhys/Feyre fic.

A part of me wishes Tamlin will stand me up.

But as I move through the crowded restaurant, I know where he'll be, and I find him easily. We have our date at the same place, and I find him at the same table--same as every week. Week after week after week, rolling onto two and half years now. 

Our first 'date' had been at this table, while we were still prospective law students, glorifying in the possibility of it all, while pounding out drinks because the possibility could only be reached after a literal mountain for work and sleepless nights. 

I think Tamlin thinks it's romantic, setting this date up every week. It is romantic, isn't it?

My eye catches his immediately, and he raises his hand up as if I don't see him. A few girl's I pass at the bar start giggling, then turn to me as they realize he hasn't been waving at them. And Tamlin, ever the gentleman, gets up to give me a kiss and escort me to my seat before taking back his own.

"Sorry I'm late."

"It's not a problem. Just got here myself." It's a lie and we both know it, but we let it pass without remarking on it. I don't think there's been a day in Tamlin's life where he hasn't been at least 15 minutes early. Traffic, the wrath of God, it's got nothing on Tamlin's punctuality. Which means he's been sitting here for at least thirty minutes waiting for me.

The waitress comes by to smile at Tamlin and ask us if we want a drink. She stands very close to him and puts her hand on his shoulder to draw his gaze up towards her. I envy her flirty smile. The way she tries to draw him in. But then my attention is caught on the empty glass in front of Tamlin. He's has ordered a vodka tonic and allowed himself the pleasure of drinking it these past thirty minutes. Now, for the rest of the night, he won't drink anything but water. He doesn't like to be out of control.

"Moscow mule, extra strong, extra lime." I tell the woman, not bothering to look at the menu. After all these years, I pretty much have it memorized.

"Just water for me, thank you." Tamlin smiles at her, and she beams right back, a glow entering her skin at the devastation of Tamlin's attractiveness. Tamlin Harper is a _handsome_ man. It helps that he takes care of himself, flossing his pearly white teeth, conditioning his gently curled golden hair, and innately comfortable in his meticulously tailored clothes. He's twenty-seven and has been born with so many silver spoons stuck in his mouth, his tongue is practically gilded. All of it together has the cultivated effect of one beautiful, confident-in-his-skin man.

I used to love that. Used to go wild for his smiles.

When had that changed?

I realize he's speaking to me. The waitress is gone. My mule is already on the table. I haven't heard a word he's said.

"Feyre." He reaches forward and touches my hand with the tips of his fingers. There's a bit of a growl in his voice, a bit of annoyance in his gaze. "Are you okay?"

If I say no, we'll fight. He'll demand to know what's wrong and then galavant around like he's the sole person in the world who can fix everything that's ever been broken. And I don't want to fight. So I flip my hand up and hold his across the table while my other hand grabs the tin-cup so I can take a large gulp that burns all the way down. "Sorry, my heads still filled up with the case I've been working on."

He has intense, green-eyes speckled with bits of gold. They scrutinize me before he nods. 

He's told me before that he loves the fact that we're both lawyers and can 'talk shop' together. So when we do see each other--which is growing more and more infrequent--we talk about work. Which means we never really leave it. "Tell me about the case." He says, squeezing my fingers. I feel like it's his version of _come on, give me something. Anything._

But I have to wrack my brain on what to give him. I can barely remember what case I had in front of me before leaving the office. "An unlawful termination of employment." I realize. Then I'm relieved by the waitress who stops by, asking if we know what we want to order. I get an appetizer, just so she can come back in a few minutes.

After she leaves, an older couple takes her place by the table. It looks like it's might night to be saved. I smile at them, at a couple who leaks old-wealth through their monochrome clothing and the fine, fine fabric of their clothes. The woman's grey bob is classy and goes well with her silver uber-modern necklace wrapped around her throat and shoulders like a resting snake.

"You're Tamlin Spring Jr, right?" The man asks. He's got the kind of voice that stands up and shakes the room's hand, friendly and attention-grabbing and fearless. "Tamlin's son?" He extends his hand.

"I'm Tamlin jr, yes." Tamlin says, falling back into his heartbreaking smile.

They talk for a while, while I turn to the woman. "Hello. I'm Feyre Archeron." I greet. 

The woman shakes my hand in a dainty, lotion-slick grip while she looks at me. Really _looks_ at me. And the soft smile she'd had on her mature, elegant face turns a little brittle and sharp. She says hello, but the lack of interest is obvious. It's something that I've grown used to, in Tamlin's family's circle. They take one look at me and can see that my hair is cut at home, and I pay ten dollars to wax my eyebrows, and that I get all my clothes at the mall. She looks away so she can pay attention to the conversation Tamlin and her husband is having about a possible interest-bearing case. It's as if those born to privilege can _smell_ the near-poverty on me. Like a clean-freak can see a mote of dust. Nevermind that I was raised in the same lap of luxury that Tamlin had been born into. I was no longer in it. That had been taken away like the blast of a shotgun.

Eventually, the elderly couple leaves with the promise of a follow up meeting at Tamlin's firm.

Tamlin and I slide smoothly into our conversation. It’s easy, natural. Always has been, since we met at law school. And even though we slept together frequently, being with him felt like being with an old friend, or a really familiar colleague. Dinner finishes quickly, and I know what he’s about to offer as we pay for the damage. “You want to come to my place, we can find a movie to watch?” His subtle code for Netflix and chill.

"Rain check?" I look away when his face darkens. It's been a solid month since we've had sex. "I have to be in the office before 6, to prep a deposition." It's a bald-faced lie, but I don't want to stay at his place.

He doesn't call me on it. I can see he wants to, but he doesn't. 

I want him to yell at me. Argue with me so I feel like I have an excuse to end these weekly dinners. But he doesn't press the issue.

He nods. He helps me put on my coat, and he walks me to my car.

* * *

I started my internship at Rose and Thorn while I was finishing up law school, and they'd offered me a junior associate position once I graduated. it's a small, but well-established firm that takes just about every case that comes it's way. And I love working at it. The fact that the company is smaller means that I get to take cases that most junior associates at a bigger firm can only dream of. And sure, the salary is shit, and there's absolutely no prestige, but I'd take Rose and Thorn over Tamlin's father's busy, Madison-Avenue firm any day.

"Mornin', Morrigan." I fling a street-cart burrito into the air, and Morrigan, our receptionist and all around God-send, snatches it into the air with her quick-style reflexes. It always amazes me how she can do just about anything with her long French nails. But she does it.

"Late again!" She crows, holding up her prize. During my internship, we'd made a deal with each other. Every day that I was late, I had to buy her breakfast. Which meant I bought her breakfast pretty much every day. "Hey, b-t-dubs," She flings a wave of blond hair over her shoulder, "Hottie boyfriend called, wants _me_ to check _your_ calendar so you can meet a consultation for a new client of his."

Well--shit. That meant he knew I was lying about the early morning prep. I lean against the counter that is Morrigan's domain. "Isn't that your job, though?"

"Isn't it your job to show up on time?" She gives me a coy, saccharine smile. We both know that she's already set up a meeting on my calendar. And more than just with Tamlin's new case, knowing her.

"No--it's to be a cutthroat bitch." I flash her my teeth, and her eyes roll.

"Honey, that's cute." A nail file comes out, not to file her long tips, but to pick at whatever underneath them. "You're the kind of bitch that bites the hand that feeds, until it bites back. Then you're all tummy."

I only grunt to disagree. Defending my honor and reputation is a mixed bag with Morrigan. She can cut through bullshit and self-lies better than anyone I have ever met in my entire life. It's why we're such good friends. So I just knock on the counter and say, "Don't tell." 

* * *

Morrigan buzzes me to tell me Tamlin and Mr. Night are waiting for me. They're my eleven o'clock. I'm still working on my cases. And of course, Tamlin is 15 minutes early.

"Fuck me, seriously?" I snap, trying to shove the phone between my cheek and shoulder.

"Oh yeah, for serious."

"Jesus christ--ugh, shit. Shit shit shit." I hiss, because it's nice to swear when you have a million and ten things to do before 10am, and it's already 10:45. "Where did I put my shoes?" That was an important starting point for a meeting. "And coffee, sweet mother, I want _coffee_."

"No more coffee for you!" Morrigan snaps. "Also, girl, stop throwing your shoes at Isaac's door to get his attention like a cavewoman, and maybe he'll stop intercepting the interns from _getting_ you coffee."

"I hate your logic."

"Tough."

There's a soft sound over the phone, a murmur, and I realize that she's put me on speaker-again. "Send 'em to the conference room, be there--" She cuts me off, and I peak my head out of the doorway to see that she's escorting two suits--one of them being Tamlin--towards the conference room. "Rude!" I yell after her. "Very rude!"

Without turning, she slaps her ass.

Tamlin turns, though. He shoots me a sour-lemon glare. And yeah, I get it. It's not in any way professional of me, but it's 10am and he should really cut me some slack.

It's only ten minutes after eleven when I stride through the conference room, barefooted because I still can't find my shoes. I feel a little proud of myself for my approximate timeliness, though. My arms are overloaded with my handy-dandy notepad, my phone, my laptop, and my coffee, so there's no much more to do than nod to the two men--who both stand when I enter--than dump everything in front fo me. I'm so focused on keeping my coffee from spilling that everything just sort of falls onto the table.

I look mournfully at my mug, judging it for wronging me, before slinging it back in two gulps. "Would you boys like coffee?" I look at Tamlin, whose got his fake friendly smile, the corners of his eyes tight like he wants to start clocking heads together. "No? Maybe? Morrigan will be by with it in, oh, three minutes." However long it took for a new pot in the break room to refill.

"Feyre, this is Rhysand Night." Tamlin motions to the other man standing in the room.

I look to the guy, whose drop dead fucking gorgeous. He's got pale skin, black hair, and the strangest, most beautiful lavender eyes I've ever seen. He's not as polished and put together at Tamlin is, but there's something about him, a manliness that's less Barbie-doll and more _hello libido, I missed you_. 

"It's Rhys, no one calls me Rhysand but this guy," He nods his chin to Tamlin, then takes one of his hands out of his slacks to reach forward. His touch swallows up mine in warmth and firmness and undeniable calluses.

Rhys. It's a sexy name for a sexy man. Rhys Night. I feel like I know the name somewhere, but as I watch Rhys's smile turn from friendly to cocky, I can't quiet figure out _how_ I know the name. I keep trying to look for something in his purple eyes, something that'll spark my caffeine-addled memory. 

"Feyre?" I look at Tamlin, and then realize he's looking down at the way I'm still gripping Rhys's hand. I drop it quickly. "Rhysand, ah--Rhys, has an endorsement contract that he wants out of. My firm has taken a look at it. It's pretty ironclad from a contractual perspective, but I know you have personal experience with the Hampton case."

Interesting.

I'm a little impressed Tamlin even remembers the Hampton case. I'd written my paper about it in my last year of law school. Hampton had been an athlete who'd had a three-year endorsement contract with a company that sold energy drinks. In the middle of his contract, Hampton's company merged with another, who had some unFDA approved chemicals within their own products. Hampton had wanted to get ahead of the eventual scandal by dropping his association with the company. In a feat of lawyerly loopholes, the attorney, rather than fighting the contract in its totality, had sued based on the contract's one-sentence moral clause.

I looked back at Rhys. I wasn't surprised that he was an athlete. Yes, he wore his suit well, but the had the kind of body underneath it that came with a lot of time and effort. Looking him over, though, I couldn't quite tell what he did. He definitely wasn't a pro-golder like Hampton, though.

"Right." I was staring again. "Why don't we sit down. Let's start with your background, Rhys."

I take my pen, but instead of leaning towards my legal pad, I slouch in my chair and start clicking it. I can feel Tamlin's jaw clench with every rapid click. 

Rhys, apparently, is an MMA fighter. As he speaks, he looks directly into my eyes. There's an intensity about him, an energy, that's captivating. I've always enjoyed attentiveness. But this is almost unreal.

Morrigan walks in, offering coffee to the men. "Hey, where's mine, you glorious bi--" And calling your secretary a bitch was not very professional behavior. I change words awkwardly. "You." 

I take the mug she offers me with grabby hands, holding the hot ceramic in my palms.

"Hopeless." She teases me. "Absolutely hopeless." 

Rhys starts where he left off once Morr leaves. I take a minute--or the better part of several--to look at his face before his eyes draw me back in. There's a small, healed scar above his left eye and another longer one on his right cheek, melding into the gentle shadow of stubble that will eventually pop it's way into existence during the day. His pale skin is startling against his black hair and his cheekbones are square and sharp, leading into the curve and definition of a square jaw. He's got a strong and masculine presence, and the scars really add to it.

I'm a little startled when Tamlin speaks. I'd forgotten he was even in the room. I focus on him as he speaks about the contract, but my eyes wander unerringly back to Rhys, who catches my gaze each and every time. There's a gentle uptick to his well-shaped lips that grows and grows as the minutes pass.

"What do you think, then?" He asks, as Tamlin stands, the meeting over.

I shrug. "Could go either way. Depends on the contract, company, and mostly the judge, but if we push it right, yeah, you could break it. I really have to do some research before I can give you more than that."

Tamlin, hovering near the door, says, "Are we still on for Thursday? Maybe we can discuss this further over drinks." And there's something about his voice, a gruffness that has Rhys looking casually between us.

"Are you two a couple?"

I say no while Tamlin says yes. I look towards Tamlin, but then have to quickly look away. And of course, my gaze lands on Rhys's face. There's a glimmer to his hypnotically violet eyes that's sort of devious. I like it. I like it a lot. I have to tear my eyes away when Tamlin demands, "So, Thursday?"

"I'll see what I can do." It's the only response I'm capable of giving at the moment. I show them out of the conference room and stand by Morrigan's desk as the two of them head out. Rhys looks back, catches my gaze, and then his curled lips pull into a full-blown smile.

* * *

I have a hard time sleeping. My doctor says that I drink too much caffeine, but I think it's because I just really, really hate sleeping. 

Still, it's harder to sleep the night after meeting Rhys than it usually is. I get a solid two hours of restless, Rhys-haunted turning, before I decide that the effort just isn't worth it. So I go to the kitchen and make myself another pot of coffee.

As I'm pouring it--I get it. The connection. Why I was so sure I had seen Rhys before. 

He's Rhys 'Lady Killer' Night. I'd been there the night he'd killed a man in a cage fight.

Graysen, my sister Elain's husband, had scored tickets to an MMA fight because he worked at the company who did the event-security. I'd decided to go mostly to prove to myself that I could. And because I hadn't spent much time with Elain in a while. It was the first really violent sporting event I'd ever gone to. Elain, too.

The fight itself hadn't lasted that long. Less than ten minutes, total, maybe. Elain and I were only a few rows back from the cage and I had _heard_ the impacts of flesh on flesh, of flesh on mat, of flesh on bone over the screaming and roaring of the crowd. 

Rhys had thrown a punch. It hit the wrong way, or maybe, the pressure had been off. The opponent's neck had snapped before he even hit the ground. He'd died three minutes later before the on-sight parametics could get him proper help.

I could remember Rhys in those long three minutes. He'd looked... lost, horrified, consumed. He'd known almost as soon as the punch had connected that the man wasn't going to get up. Rhy's knees had slammed into the mat, and tears had fallen silently down his face. He'd looked to me at that moment like a man made of a bunch of delicate little pieces that were collapsing in on themselves and breaking apart.

I should have been more concerned with the dying man, but I hadn't been. As Elain sobbed into my shoulder, all I could focus on was Rhys's face, at the consuming horror. And it's familiarity.

I'd felt kindred to the man.

* * *

It's midafternoon when Morrigan tells me there's a client in the lobby. I don't have an appointment set up, but that doesn't mean I'm not eager for a little human interaction to take me away from my caseload.

I walk into the lobby, struggling to undo some of the knots in my hair as I go. Why I thought tying it up and sticking a pencil into it was a good idea is anyone's guess. I blame the coffee. 

I stop, hand tangled up in my hair, when I realize it's Rhys sitting on one of the lobby's couches. He puts down the magazine he was looking through and rises up to greet me.

"Hey, Rhys." I feel flustered. "Is there something you needed?" 

He steps closer to me, close enough to invade the normal personal-bubble space that people keep around them. He's taller than me, especially when I'm without shoes, so I have to crane my neck up to look for his purple eyes. His smile is slow, and sweet despite it's obviously devious curl. And I can't stop myself from smiling back. It's instinctual. "I remembered a few things I thought you should know, do you have a few minutes?"

"Honey, she's got a lifetime." Morrigan said, not looking up from her screen.

"Hush, horn-dog." I motion him back towards my office. "Come on, let's go sit."

Rhys smiles, so I smile. I don't even know what were smiling about, but there's a giddy feeling in my stomach that makes me feel young. He follows me down the hallway and just as we turn into my office, I catch the sight of him looking down at my ass through the reflection of a window. His eyes, though, when I turn to look at him, are up.

He grins, completely unapologetic.

"I think you'd break my chairs, so let's sit on the couch." My office in neat, tidy, and has nothing but filing cabinets, boxes of files, a desk, and two wicker chairs. The couch is against one wall, near the door and deliciously comfortable.

I grab my notepad and pen before I make my way back to the couch, standing on it before sinking down so the armrest is behind me. Rhys doesn't sit on the the other end, but directly next to me, so I can feel the heat of his thighs against my feet. I poke him with a toe. "Hit me." Turning back to my legal pad, I click my pen absently while waiting for some facts. But none come.

I look up, confused, and see that he's staring at me. He smiles - and I smile back. I don't think I've smiled this much in ages. My cheeks are hurting.

"I forgot to ask you out to dinner yesterday."

"Oh, you didn't know? Lawyers don't eat food. It's a prerequisite for being a soulless asshole."

"Drinks then." He says easily. I watch him put an ankle on his knee, leaning back into the couch like he's getting comfortable as one arm rests on the back. Something about the position immediately makes the space intimate. Like I'm being drawn into him. "I'll be an absolute gentleman. Scouts honor." He holds up three fingers near my shoulder.

" _You_ were a scout?"

"Yes." He says it without conviction, though. And a grin breaks free. He's got an adorably masculine way of looking unashamed when he's caught doing something like staring at asses and lying. "Okay, so maybe it was only for a day. My brother and I got kicked out for fighting at the second meeting. But it still counts. I was a scout."

I snort. "Sure." I consider him. He's charming. Beautiful. And something about him tell some he'd be great in bed. "But I got ask." I flop my notepad and pen down, letting them hit the hardwood floor so I can give him my undivided attention. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to have dinner with me?"

He looks me over. I'm wearing slacks and a blouse, nothing fancy, but there's something about the way he gaze lands on me. He seems to be taking in every curve, every dip, every valley of my body and caressing it with his eyes. I feel good when he looks at me. I feel sexy. "Do I need a reason other than blatant sexual attraction?" He asks, a bit of a purr in his voice.

"Consider me superficial." I poke him again with a toe.

He laughs, and the long, lean column of his throat is exposed while his teeth flash. "I like your attitude, darling." And that's all he says.

I suck on my front teeth, considering him. I can't think of any reason to say no. Not that I think very hard. "Fuck it, let's do it."

His smile turns a bit, arrogance and masculine-pride mixing together to give me a heady, warm look. "Really?"

Why was he asking that? "Unless you'd rather not..."

"Oh, no. I really rather would. How about Friday. 7pm? I can pick you up at your place."

"Honey, I'm a lawyer. I'd be lucky to get out of the office by 7pm. Let's say 9--and you pick me up here."

And just like that, I had dinner plans with Rhys 'Lady Killer' Night.

* * *

I take an extra set of clothes with me to the office on Friday so I can change once work is over. Morrigan has waited up for me, doing her own work, and her grin is wicked as she says, "Honey, with clothes like that, you are getting laid."

"Shit, I haven't gotten laid in a minute." Since the last time I was with Tamlin, actually. I brush my hands down the slick material of the skirt, smoothing it over my thighs.

"Well, that's good to know."

I turn, a little surprised to see Rhys standing in the doorway, wearing a different combo of dress-shirt and slacks that I'd seen the other two times we'd met. He's sexy. Polished but not too polished, pretty but not too pretty. "Hello, darling." He says, and gives me his infectious smile. "You look amazing."

"Ha, she knows it, too." Morrigan said, grinning.

"Night, Mor." I lean over the top of the reception's desk and give her a kiss on the cheek. "Pick up Nicky and Rob for me? Elain is-"

"I got it, I got it. The little squirt and I can watch Dirty Dancing again." Morrigan's eyes twinkle. She loves educating my niece with 80's movies.

I follow Rhys out of the building, and he's quiet as we go towards the street. "Do you have kids?"

"Me?" I shake my head. "No. A niece and nephew. I get to teach them swear words and hype them up on sugar--then release them back to their parents."

"Wicked woman," He says, chuckling. He leads me to a motorcycle parked on the street, and god help me, it takes me a few minutes to realize that's what he road on and what he expects me to straddle. I take the helmet he offers me without comment. "Have you ridden before?" He looks curious as he grabs his own helmet, and he gets onto the bike by flashing the very long, very toned leg up and over. The movement is positively graceful.

"Yeah. Several times. My Dad, he owned an old Harley." I haven't been on one since I was a little girl, though.

I put on the helmet, and his fingers graze the delicate skin under my chin as he helps me straps it on. I straddle behind him, getting close enough that my chest presses against his back and my arms fit around his torso. He's ridiculously well-muscled, the definition coming even through the shirt as I cop a bit of a feel. I bet he looks incredible naked.

I squeeze him with my thighs as we take off, and I flex and lean with him as we take to the road.

He drives me towards a neighborhood. I've never been to a restaurant or a bar in this part of town, but I'm excited to try just about anything new. It isn't until he slows and slides the bike into an opening metal door of a warehouse that I realize we _aren't_ going to a bar. Or a restaurant. The door slides closed behind us and he barks his bike under the industrial lights of a massive garage.

"So." I take off the helmet before getting off the bike. "Is it time to put the lotion no the skin yet?"

His body shakes between my legs as he laughs. "After I dig around for my hose." I look down towards his lap, which is easy to do, since he's still spread over his bike. His devious, masculine smile is back on as my eyes rake up his figure. "That hose I can find just fine, daring."

"I'd hope so." I look around, putting his helmet on a utility bench. It looks like a normal garage, if a bit too large, with a dark SUV, peddle bikes hanging from the ceiling, and a lot of storage shelves. "Where are we?"

"My place. I own the building. First floor is a gym, and I live in the loft upstairs."

"Oh." I've never been on a first day that led to someone's house. Maybe he was a man-slut. With a fighting name like 'lady killer', I shouldn't be surprised. And for some reason the idea that he thinks I'm easy gives me a fluttering feeling in my stomach.

"I know you said you don't eat, but I made dinner anyways. Ready?" He asks.

His hand finds its way to the small of my back as he leads me to the main part of the warehouse. His thumb rubs across the base of my spine in a delicious pressure as we walk. His gym is enormous, filled with exercise equipment in one half and two large boxing rings on the other. Along one wall is a way array of handling punching bags of all size and heaviness--and the place smells like dirt and shoes and sweat. It's almost too masculine. "Well, shit. Just looking at this place makes me feel like I need to work out more." I huff, looking at all the dark crevices.

He looks down at me. "I would love to see you working out here." His smile grows larger. "You probably wear spandex, right? Tight leggings?"

"No. I work out commando." I drawl.

His grin grows. "Even better."

He leads me to a freight elevator and pulls down the metal gate, inserts a key into the control panel and then we slowly ascend. The second his hands aren’t full doing one thing or another, they find their way to the small of my back time and time again. He gives me the gentlest pressure with his fingertips as urges me to move into the upstairs level.

At least half is just an open floor space with a large, comfortable-looking living room furniture and a massive TV. Some is modern kitchen, complete with an oversize island and gleaming appliances. Though it’s a bachelor pad, it’s nice. I like how there are some clothes flung along the back of the couch, and dishes on the counter.

Then I take in the smell. “Is that chicken Franchese?”

His voice is appreciative as he says, “Yeah.” He leaves me to walk towards the kitchen, so he doesn’t notice the full-body shiver that takes me over at his words. I’m a sucker for praise. I’ve craved it ever since I was a kid, and being in such a competitive field only made me desire for it worse. I like when he gives it to me. Wonder if he’d do it in bed, too.

“Do you cook often?” I ask, following him.

“Have to. It’s part of the sport. Certain workouts require certain nutrition, calorie intake, proteins—and it’s a bitch and half trying to search for all that at restaurants. Easier to cook.”

We walk into the kitchen, and I unceremoniously throw off my shoes before following him. As he takes something out of the oven, I lean against the island. I don't miss the way his eyes jump towards my breasts when he turns around.

“You still fight?” I think I could remember the newspaper saying something about him retiring. At least, Google had verified he hadn’t been in any public fights since it happened. But he was too young for a fighter to retire.

Rhys ignores me, which I think is his way of telling me to butt out. Dinner is apparently ready, and he put out the meal along with a side of salad. We eat then and there, at the kitchen island. I eat standing up, teasing him about his domesticity. He manages to get out of me that I know at least five delivery men by name.

The food is delicious, and the conversation flows in a sort of effortless way as we casually learn about one another.

He gives me booze—the staplemark of any soulless lawyer’s meal, he teased—in too strong mix drink as we settle down on his huge couch.

Rhys tells me how he got into MMA. His father wasn't much of a father figure, always off doing business, so it was mostly him and his mother--who was a seamstress--and his little sister, Elle. When he was pretty young, he got into some school fights with a boy his age, Cassian.

"And that was pretty much it." Rhys said casually. "We beat each other a bloody pulp on the schoolyard."

" _That's_ how you got into fighting?" I asked, aghast. He's sitting sideways on the couch, one arm lounging against the backrest, and his legs are parted so on knee casually touches my thigh.

"Well, it's a bit more complicated than that. Cassian was in a bad spot. His mother was pretty dependent on drugs. My mother, being the devious, loving woman that she is, decided that it didn't matter if we hated each other or not. She took us both to karate the next week. We bonded over kicking the shit out of each other and he sort of moved in during high school since there was no more point pretending he didn't already live on our couch."

"Did you ever stop beating the crap out of each other?" I asked, sipping my drink.

"Oh, eventually. Though if you ask him, he's still kicking my ass left and right." He tells me easily about some of the fights they've had over the years.There’s a fondness in his voice, a happiness that makes my toes clench. It’s weird since he’s talking about violence, but it doesn’t _feel_ like he’s glorifying the violence, but the required strength. The skill, maybe.

“What about you, tell me about your family.” He says, pushing my thigh gently with his knee.

"Let's see..." What to tell him? "I'm the youngest of three girls." I bite back my smile as he gives a gentle groaning ' _three_ girls?'. "My sister, Nesta, she's about three years older than me. She's in the stock market, making it big on Wall Street. She's got an ear for money, like my father. She pretty much raised me and my sister, and she's probably the most responsible, practical person I've ever met. She's a horrible bitch, but only I can say that."

"Of course." He purred.

"Elain is only one year older than me. She's a tattoo artist, and is saving up money for her own shop. She and her husband, Graysen, are the one with the two kids. And she has more on the way."

"Hopefully they're not all traumatized and stunted by the amount of sugar you pour down their throats." He seemed delighted when I slapped at his ribs in mock outrage. He pretended it hurt, curling up on himself, huffing as he peeked at me with one eye squinted shut. “Careful, there, girl, you got some strength in that hand.”

“Come off it.” I rolled on my hip to face him. “I bet I couldn’t hurt you if I tried.”

He chuckled and was suddenly standing up. I looked at him. Though he was still smiling, there was a… distance all of a sudden. “Want more to drink?” He took my glass and walked to the kitchen.

“You aren’t having one?” I ask, noticing he hadn’t had one earlier, either. I take it from his hand as he sits back down.

“Don’t drink when I’m training.” He gets much closer than before. Our legs touch. He’s also watching the space where our legs touch. He notices me staring, and his eyes drag slowly up to me, peaking through the lashes. His gaze is so intense. So focused on me. His eyes shift down. To my mouth. Then drag back up to my eyes. His pupils are dilatated, and I can feel my breasts pushing against my bodysuit with each breath I take.

What were we talking about? Drinking. Drinking and training. “Are you training for a fight?”

There’s an expression on his face that breaks a little of the animal magnetism. And the moment passes. It was the wrong thing to ask. “Not really.” He ponders for a second, before looking back at me. “If you ask Cass, I am.”

"Is he really invested into your training?"

"You could say that. He is my trainer."

I wait for more. He hadn’t exactly been stingy with information, but I can tell that this is a delicate subject. “I can tell you don’t want to talk about it, and if it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to. I just want to know more about you.” I put the drink down, so I don’t pass over the line and get drunk-grabby with him. I want to be aware and sober when we fuck.

He’s still beside me. “Have I told you that I love how direct you are, Feyre?” He gives his devious smile to me, as I peak at him. “Cass thinks I’m training to fight. And maybe I am. I enjoy the work out, the training, I think it’s ingrained in me to keep it up, but there’s no point to it unless I’m going to fight. It’s not really like working out. It’s harsher, more regimented.

"Cass, he got injured a while back. A fourwheeling accident gone wrong. He fell down a cliff and broke both his legs. There was a hellish few years where we wondered if he would ever be able to walk properly, but he was a fighter, and he knows how to work through the pain for a particular goal." There's pride in Rhy's voice as he speak. "When they said he'd never walk without crutches, he took it as a personal challenge. Now he walks just fine. Bit of a limp, though."

"But he can't fight anymore?" I guess.

"No. Not professionally. But it doesn't stop him."

He teased old family stories from me. The reason why I wanted to be a lawyer. My friendship with Morrigan. Tales of my misadventures with my niece and nephew. By the time he takes me home, the sun is coming up and early joggers are making their way around the neighborhood. The entire night was just… effortless.

There isn’t a single uncomfortable moment until we found ourselves in front of my apartment building.

He parks his bike and get's off with me. He stands close, looking down at me, looking like he’s going to kiss me fucking silly. And I want him to. Fuck, I’m nearly pushing myself against him, my chest touching his, my face straining up to meet his own. But he only leans down, so his breath tickles my ear as he whispers, “I’d love to see you again.”

I hum and move my head. His cheek brushes against mine, and I grab at his hair so he can’t lift his head away. I kiss him. It’s a chaste thing, no tongue, no grinding, but it feels fucking good. His body pressed against me is all solid muscle. His hands go up to my hips, holding my in a firm grip. And there’s something there, a promise of complete abandon if I pushed a little harder.

I don’t, though. The second his tongue touches my lip, I pull away. I have to arch my back backwards, since his grip on my hips is uncompromising.

He looks a little confused, a little vulnerable. I touch his cheek with the hand not tangled tight in his hair. “I have this terrible habit of moving too quickly with guys. I’m all about the immediate gratification—and I forget that there’s a person I should invest in on the other side.” It’s half warning, half confession. I’d done it with Tamlin. With countless other boyfriends since I learned sex could be great. “But I want to get to know you, Rhys. It helps that I know that this?” I scratched the blunt ends of my nails down his face, into his stubble. His eyelids shuttered closed a bit. “This is going to be fucking hot.”

I lean up. Give him a little kiss on the cheek where I’d scratched. 

His squeezes my hips in his hands, pushing me closer to his chest. He’s hard against my stomach. “I’ll make you work for it, then.” And then he steps back.

I sway a bit on my heels, feeling the flush of my skin. And the way he’s looking at me, devious and lusty and male—I know it’s completely worth the wait.

* * *

I wake up screaming. Shaking. Plastered in sweat.

The worst is the memories. I try to shove them down as hard as I fucking can, so none can slip out into my waking mind. I know if I let them come in, the day will be shot. And Isaac had been giving me his caseload on top of mine, while he was out on vacation.

I needed to be on top of my shit.

It’s been six years. Six fucking years! I nearly pull my hair out, as a wail escaped between my lips. You’d think after a while, the nightmares would stop coming. At least the PTSD was nearly gone. At least I wasn’t still burying myself in sex and booze till there was nothing left in me but mindless gratification and an overwhelming sense of paranoia.

The memories seep in. I can’t help it.

His fists connect with her head. She stumbles back and hits the fridge. There’s a crack. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. Her body slides down in a gangly, unnatural heap, not even trying to stop the fall. He’s really hurt her badly this time. And he’s not done. He leans down. His fist pulls back. He get’s three punches into her face, her chest. His foot gets dangerously close to the tiny body resting by her frame. A gunshot blasts. Its shot is dull to me now, an echo of an echo of an echo, but I remember how it rang in my ears. How a high-pitched scream wouldn’t go away for _days_.

Fuck this.

I get up. It’s three hours until I need to be at work, so I’d slept for maybe a solid four tonight. Probably why I’d dreamed. I go to my calendar and check out my sleep diary. I’d had no sleep the night Rhys took me out on date. Coffee had kept me up so I could take the kids from Mor while we gossiped about how hot Rhys was before I entertained them. Saturday night was three hours of sleep, if you counted all the little cap-naps I had with Rob. I write down 4, on Sunday. That meant I had a total of 9 hours of sleep the entire week.

My brain would fry soon. I’d have to knock myself out with some of the sedatives the doctor had given me, just to keep me from slipping. The idea leaves a bitter, ugly taste in my mouth.

“Auntie?” I turn to look at Nicky, whose rubbing her eyes in the doorway, still wearing her onsie. “I heard something.”

“Just a nightmare, sweetie-pie.” I walk over to her. If she notices how sweaty and gross I am, she’s kind enough not to mention it. “You should be in bed, little miss. School isn’t for a while.”

“Can I sleep with you?”

I want to. The kids need it, at their age. It makes them feel secure. That’s what Elain says. But it’s also too soothing. I always fall asleep with them. And the last time I’d woken up with someone next to me, I’d been choking them before I realized I was wake.

I would never, ever, _ever_ hurt the kids. Even if it means distancing myself from a simple, little thing. “Sorry, sweets. I need to work.”

“You’re always working.” She pouts. I take her to my spare room, which was outfitted with twin beds for them. I tuck her in, and check on Rob. He’s a heavy sleeper, and I watch his back raise and fall as he gums his knuckles. “Read me a story?”

“No, little love bug. Sleep. Or you’ll be a nightmare at school.” I kiss her forehead. Smooth all her thin, wispy hair from her face. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” She mumbled.

“No staying up and playing with your toys.” I tease, touching the tip of her nose. I walk quickly out of the bedroom. Keep it open a crack for her. Then I go to the shower and silently freak the _fuck_ out.

* * *

I throw myself into work. Burn the candle so fucking bad there aren’t even two ends anymore. My hands start their weird twitches, and I become even more absent-minded. Mor puts a ban on my coffee supply, threatening anyone who gives it to me permanent dismemberment. I can see the concern in her gaze. The love in her eyes. She follows me home and bullies me into taking the sedative.

She’s my lifeline. My sanity.

I don’t know why, but the night is blissfully without nightmares. I sleep for nearly twelve hours straight, and when I wake up, my heads groggy and pounding. But it’s good. Better.

My phone buzzes. _Dinner tomorrow night? I miss you_.

Tamlin. Ugh. He always confirms the date before it happens, as if it’s not a regularly scheduled thing. Though, thinking about it, I missed the last… two? I look to the calendar. Yeah. I missed our last two dates. I wonder how long he sat there, waiting for me at our table. Wonder if he took anyone else home when he realized I wasn’t coming.

We’ve gotten well into the stagnant part of the relationship. It’s how it always goes with me. Blind lust, abandon, the beginnings of love, then the apathy starts to creep in. I stop caring. It becomes nothing more than routine. The only reason, I think, that Tamlin and I have lasted two and half years is because he’s a friend. None of the others had been anything more than fuck buddies.

I text him back. _Same time, same place?_ Something in me hopes that it’ll be different.

_Yes. Looking forward to it._

I sigh heavily. I hate breaking up with people. It’s so awkward.

I lean back in bed, reaching for my vibrator. I stare at it sadly. “You and me, were forever, baby.” I tell it. At the click of my thumb, it vibrates its agreement.

I sit down at the usual table and Tamlin settles back into his seat across from me. I open my mouth to tell him, then shut it. He was a good man. He deserved better than a ripped off band-aid.

So we sit. We talk about work. He takes his drink, then his water. I drink, and drink, and drink. I’ve become a slush again—and I know I need to cut myself off quickly before things start to really backslide. I force willpower into my body, refusing to touch the third drink of the night, so it sits in front of me, tempting me with all the things I think I want but never actually need.

My phone buzzes halfway through the dinner. 

_I can’t stop thinking about you_. It was Rhys. We'd been on two perfect dates since the first one--one where we strolled around the park together, and another back at his place for dinner. We still hadn't slept together, but oh, was the sexual tension driving me insane.

“Wow, I haven’t seen that smile in a while,” Tamlin said, across from me. “What did Mor say now?”

I shake my head. Put my phone down. Now or never.

“We need to talk, Tamlin.” He’s a lawyer, a damn good one, too. He knows how to read people. I watch him sit back, resignation already in his charming eyes. He’s polite, of course, an absolute gentleman. No screaming. No questioning. No begging. But I can tell there's turmoil going on under the surface.

It takes all of ten minutes, before I stand. Still, he helps me into my coat and see’s me to my car.

In my car, I pull up my phone. Then put it down after five or seven different messages get typed up and deleted. In the end, I say fuck it. Just fuck it.

I drive to Rhys’s place. I park my car out in the street and ring the buzzer by the warehouse’s main door. I jump up and down in the cold, waiting, before the door finally opens. “You lose your key again or something?” He’s shirtless, wearing loose sweats. Each arm is decorated with a full sleeve of colorful, well-coordinated tattoos. His hair is wet and damn—does he look good. Like, the kind of guy where you can almost _picture_ what the sex would look like, frame by frame, shot by shot, with a soundtack and everything in the background.

He looks up from where he was trying to tie his sweats closed. Looks a little startled as he sees me. “Feyre?”

“I know I probably shouldn’t just barge over.” I don’t look up from his chest. “But—”

A female voice interrupts me. “Hey,” I turn. She’s beautiful, standing there with bags of groceries in her arms. She’s got the whole loose and effortless thing going on, her dark hair in a pony-tail, her tank top exposing gently defined arms, her thin hips encased in old, faded jeans. “You just going to stand there or are you going to help me, so I don’t drop your shit?” Rhys moves closer, and I step back to get out of his way. He takes most of the bags, and the woman turns to me with an exasperated smile. “Sometimes you have to hit this one over the head to get him to snap to.”

She assesses me, then, really taking me in. “Hi?” She asks.

I didn’t even think about Rhys having company. I mean, a hot guy called “Lady Killer” isn’t exactly screaming monogamy. The jealousy and hurt is a new feeling for me, though, and I stand there, awkward, huddled in the cold and wondering how this woman can stand with only a tank top on. I feel inadequate. Stupid, even. And more than a little pissed—at myself or at Rhys, I can’t tell.

“I should have called first.” I twist my lips into what I hope is a smile. I give a little wave, before hurrying away. _Smooth, Feyre_. I hadn’t been this socially inept since—fuck. Forever.

Before I can take my first real step, though, or even get off the curb, Rhys grabs me around my waist, lifting me up and shoving me into his chest. He puts me down carefully, and I’m between him and the woman. Somehow, he’s managed to hold all ten of the bulging grocery bags in one hand, and his bare bicep bulging under the weight is _obscene_. “Feyre, wait. Don’t just go. Come in.”

In? What? I look back towards the woman, whose staring at us curiously. I shake my head, a little desperate to get out of this situation. “No, really. I’m sorry I interrupted. I’ll just…”

Rhys’s eyes get wide, and then that devilish smirk crosses over his face. “You don’t like the idea of me with another woman, do you?”

“Fuck off.” I slap his chest, and he pretends, again, that I hurt him as he stagers. “Go play with your hose.”

He laughs, grabbing my waist again. Despite the fact that there are goosebumps all over his naked chest, he’s warm at my side. “Feyre, this is my sister, Elle.” His _sister_? God, I felt stupid now. But in my defense, they don't look anything alike. She doesn't have his beautiful violet eyes. “She’s dropping off groceries because I have poor impulse control and always buy things not in the regiment.” He turns and grabs the rest of the bags from Lily easily, so both biceps bulge. “Elle, say goodbye to Feyre now."

Elle is openly curious, and also excited. It’s the same look Mor get’s when she’s heard really, really good gossip and can’t wait to shit talk. “I can stay for a while. Joe isn’t expecting me for a minute.” She sounds eager.

Rhys’s steps closer, using an arm and a heavy load of groceries to nudge my back. His nose touches my temple. “Bye Elle.”

She sighs, and I watch her shake her head and smile. “Fine. I’m going, I’m going. But she better be there at dinner next month, Rhys, or I swear, you’re stupider than I thou—”

“ _Goodbye_ Elle.”

She winks at me before she turns to go to the Escalade waiting by the curb. Rhys squeezes my waist gently. “Come on, Darling.”

I take a bag or two, just to help out, and he escorts me up to his loft. I watch him pull down the metal grate—the bags still in his hands—and watch the play of muscles on his back and arms ripple. He had two large black tattoos covering each shoulder blade, which contrast sharply and well against his sleeves, and they twitch and dip with every cut curve.

He catches me checking out his back. And there’s heat in his eyes. He takes one step towards me, then stops. I take the next step, closing the distance between us so the tips of my breast touch his chest. I look up at him. My jealousy and anger from before, the stupid embarrassment, had somehow morphed my need for him. I feel hungry. I want to touch his body. Explore the power in his frame.

He bends towards me and doesn’t go for my lips. A thrill shoots across my skin as I feel his nose against the side of my throat. His body just leaning over me. His voice, when he speaks, is low and hoarse. “I like that you’re here. I like that you decided to drop by because I texted you. I like that you got jealous, too.”

I lean forward. Push my lips against the dip of muscle that rounds between his shoulders and neck. “I’ve never really been the kind of person—who get’s jealous.” I admit, feeling weird about it all. His nose brushes up and down my throat, and I like the feeling. I step closer, my chest touching his a little more firmly. He made a soft, sweet sound of appreciation. “It’s… new. I don’t like it.”

“You’ve never gotten jealous? Really?”

“I always took it as a kind of compliment, if my partner got checked out. And I’ve never really minded sharing, if I could participate.” But I hadn’t liked that idea with Rhys. Not one bit.

His mouth moved. And I flinched, screaming, as his teeth suddenly come down on my neck, effectively shutting me up with the sharpness of the pain. He laps at the skin with his tongue quickly, taunting the sensitivity through my shirt. “I don’t share, Feyre. As hot as that fucking sounds, I don’t share.”

“ _Fuck_.” I hiss, reaching for my neck. It was hot. It was really fucking hot, actually. The pain was turning into a tight, tingling sensation that traveled through my whole body. Teased my tight and full breasts with an opposite, but somehow compatible, reaction.

I waste no time in reaching for his mouth, but he jerks away. Straightens up to his full height, despite my hands tugging tightly in his hair. He looks down at me, a devilish, boyish grin lighting up his face. “Nuh-uh. You have to work for me, remember?”

“Kiss me.” It’s a plea. I press myself against him. I marvel at how I can put my entire weight against his body and he doesn’t even sway. Despite the groceries, his biceps are still going strong. Even if his fingertips have gotten white and bloodless.

“Hold still.” He bends down again, so I’m good. I don’t move. And he gives me a gentle kiss, a soft press of his lips against my own.

It shouldn’t feel as good as it does. I’m not one for soft sweetness. But it’s _because_ he’s not giving me what he knows I want that I love it. I sigh against his mouth, as he pulls gently away. “So, I have a question for you, Rhys.”

He hums, hunger in his eyes as he watches me.

“Will you go steady with me?”

I watch as he throws back his head to laugh.

* * *

The only response I get from Mor when I tell her I broke it off with Tamlin is a grunting, "Finally". I’m sitting with her behind her desk, eating food for the first time all day, even though it’s well past three pm. With Isaac gone, my workload is excruciating.

“Wait, what?” I frown at her. She’s typing away at the computer, sending off emails. She was a multi-tasker, and crazy efficient. “I thought you liked Tamlin?”

She shrugged. “Sure. I did. I liked that you managed to stay with a guy for longer than five months, too.”

“I hear a but.” I say, around a mouthful of sesame ginger chicken.

"Buuuutttt..." She trails off. She clicks a last sentence on the email, sends it, then twirls in her chair to look at me. In an elegant move she has her shapely, long legs crossed. Today, she’s wearing a loose, floral patterned summer dress I'm pretty sure she stole from my sister’s closet. "But he was a bit--controlling."

"He never tried to control me."

"No, because you didn't let him. Because you're smart." She said, leveling me with a look. "Doesn't mean he wasn't controlling, hun."

The topic makes me feel awkward. “You seeing anyone?” I ask, munching.

“We’re not talking about me right now, boo.” A slow, sweet smile spread over her features. “But yes.”

“No wonder you’re suddenly a romance guru. Talk. Who is she?"

"Her name is Clara." They'd met an LGBT friendly bar downtown and had been talking for a while now and had finally gotten past the flirting and talking stage. Apparently, Clara was a very _free_ spirit, and I appreciated what she was giving my best friend in bed as Mor went into excuriating detail. I nodded along as Mor described the techniques, the passion. “Yes. Yes! Fucking finally.”

“Right.” She sighed. “I was so tired of that dry spell after Amy.” I could see, though, that she was still a sore subject. Mor pretty much fallen for Amy, before they broke up. There had been too many obvious signs that she wasn’t faithful to Mor like Mor needed her to be. When she confronted Amy on it, they broke it off. I was still recovering the five pounds I'd gained from the obligatory ice-cream and movie breakup fest.

I touch her knee, trying to give comfort. “I have to meet her.”

"Of course. We'll go get drinks." Mor flashes me a smile. "We can double date with you and Rhys?"

I found myself touching my neck. It was still tender, but there were no marks. Just a gentle ache under the skin when I pressed down hard. “I'd like that."

“Oh, Fey, you look _gone_.” Mor’s eyes have a knowing glint in them. “How great is Rhys in the sack? You’ve been holding out.”

I shrugged. “We haven’t fucked yet.”

“Seriously. This is getting weirder and weirder. Where is my friend? Where did my little slut go?” She grabs the hem of my blouse, lifting it up. “Nope, titties still there—where is all the rest?”

“ _Stop_ ,” I said, pushing her away with a laugh. “I like him. It’s different. We hung out again last night, and before I knew it, it was 5 in the morning. Time just sort of… flies with him. It’s never awkward and there’s never a hiccup. It’s like I’ve known him all my life, even though I’m learning about him, you know?”

“No.” She gives me a ‘barf’ look. “I do _not_ know. Because I do not live in La La Land where all the romance novels go to get inspiration about lip biting techniques.” She scoffed. “I live in the world of desperate, lonely singles who are happy with a ‘it’s terribly awkward but there are no red flags’ dating scene. You know, the world you use to belong to?” She turned back around to work on her emails. “But, I’m glad, in a way, that you’re happy."

Smiling, I say, "Me too."

* * *

The second I open the door, I don’t even wait to say hi or even look at him. It’s been a solid week since our last date, mostly because of work, and I missed him. The second Rhys is there, I launch myself at him and give his cheek a huge, deep maroon lip-print before backing away. “Hey, stranger.”

His eyes were laughing, as he grabs my hips and walks me backward so he can enter the apartment. He leans down to kiss me, but then stops, sniffing the air. “You cooked?”

“If you call it that.”

“That’s thoughtful but, ah.” His nose wrinkles. “I think something is burning.”

We both look towards the kitchen. It doesn’t look like there’s any smoke, and the kitchen isn’t on fire, but the smell… “Hu. I think your right.” He helps me pull the chicken out, and I poke the crust brown top with a nail. “I think it’s not _totally_ burnt.”

He’s standing behind me, hands on my hips. I watch him reach forward to turn off the oven. “I think it's a goner."

I throw the oven mitts on the counter. From the gentle but uncompromising glide of his hands, I turn in his arms. My hands go to his chest as he lowers his face down to mine. Our kiss is a slow, sweet, gentle kind of burn. His tongue traces the outline of my lips and the sensation goes straight to my labia.

I moan and am granted the feeling of his arms coming up and tightening around me. I love the feeling of it. Of him. I bite his lower lip, and that seems to break whatever ‘let’s not French kiss’ rule he’s been keeping between the two of us. Our tongues test each other out in slow, exploring licks. And it’s good. It’s really good. Like with everything Rhys, there’s an _intent_ to it.

I move against him, trying to get our bodies in the mix. His hips don’t jerk back and forth, but do a sort of rocking glide that has me trying to deepen our kiss, to get more—

He breaks away, a roughish grin on his face and lipstick smeared all over his mouth. “I missed you too.” His voice is low, raspy.

“Good. Come here—”

He shakes his head. “Where is your menu drawer?”

“That bad, hu?” I sigh, and pull away from him. I stare longingly at the bulge in his jeans before turning away. “What’ll it be? Ethiopian? Chinese? Pizza? There’s a vegan place that has all their nutritional stuff printed out on the pamphlet.” Mor had gone through a ‘I feel fat so I’m going to eat Uber-healthy’ stage that I had picked up for all of three seconds. I'd walked by a few days ago and decided to take a menu for Rhys, just in case something like this happened.

We settle on the vegan place, and I’m astounded by the sheer capacity of nutritional extra-protein food he orders. And like with every date, we settle into our groove. It seems like no time as has really passed at all when were stretched out on my couch, looking for something to watch to prolong the night. He settles on a horror movie.

The movie is punctuated by intense, horizontal make-out sessions that leave me in a state of sexual frustration. At the moment, were at a go, though, and his body curves above mine. His hands pass slowly over the curve of my breast, his thumb so gentle against my nipple that I almost don’t feel it before he cups the side of my neck.

The credits are rolling. Dramatic music is playing. Our lips were locked together and his tongue was doing something sinful that made me melt. I run my hands down his chest, feel the crazy mass of taunt skin and rounded muscles that makes up his stomach. I reach under his shirt, feeling the skin. Go further down to touch the waistband of his jeans.

Our kiss get’s deeper. Needier. Fucking filthier. I use what room I can between him and the back of the couch to wrap both legs around him. I pull him down onto of me, so I can feel all his weight, all his bulk. I scratch at the skin of his lower stomach as his hand spasms on my neck.

And then he pulls away. My legs don’t even affect him as he gets up onto his knees. I give a pathetic, wailing screech as his hands run through his hair.

“Why did you stop? Why do you always stop?” I grab his shirt, pinching it, begging him to come back down.

“You remember what you told me, after our first date?” Something in me goes a little cold. I rest my hands back to my naked stomach, since my shirt’s been pushed up to my collar bones.

“I didn’t tell you that so you could use it against me—”

“No. No.” He leans down. Puts a hand on either side of my head. “That’s not what I meant. I’ve got the same problem, I just didn’t know it till you put it into words.” He licked his lips, tasting my lipstick. “I want you to get to know me first, so I don’t scare you away.”

“Scare me away.” I say it slowly. Confused. I think of my dreams and shake my head to get the memories to go away. “I don’t get it.”

“I want to do some pretty fucking filthy things to you.” He puts his face into my neck. I think it’s his favorite place to be, and its slowly becoming a huge turn on, feeling his breath, his stubble, the gentle way he licks at my skin while scraping his teeth against my throat. “I’m not a… gentle guy.”

I huff. “What, you think I’m going to get scared because you spank me?” He stills above me. “Or tie me up? You think I’m going to run screaming into the hills if you fuck me like a goddamn animal?” I wrap my hands around his hair, scratching his skull, acutely aware that he’s stopped breathing. I jerk my hips up, towards the erection I’d been grinding against all night.

A low, deep sound escapes from his throat. But he still lifts off of me.

* * *

Tamlin calls my cell. I’d decided to take a break from work, giving myself the pleasure of a three day weekend now that Isaac was back and could handle his own caseload again. I was on babysitting duty, instead, and Rob dozed on my chest like a sleeping, drooling little angel when I take the call.

“Hey, Tamlin, good to hear from you.” And it was, it really was. I missed his friendship.

“Hey.” He replied. There was a long, awkward pause then. “I wanted to tell you to tell you the letter you sent was a success.” His tone was all business. “For getting Rhysand out of his contract. They seemed to have agreed with you that it's in their best interest to walk away rather than entertain a public lawsuit regarding their ethics.”

I chuckled. “Yay for underhanded tactics.” I didn’t know a company out there that would risk the damage to their reputation. I stretch, then realize that Rob is sliding. I grab him quickly, grunting as my phone slips. “Shit, hold up, I got Rob—”

There’s an even longer pause, as I place Rob back on my lounging torso. His face hadn’t moved much, thanks to my boobs, and one of his tiny fits had gripped the edge of my halter top—but the bottom half of him was slidy. “Sorry, sorry—back.”

There was another long, weird pause on the phone. “How is he? How’s Rob?” His voice seems a little softer, now that he’s not talking about business.

“Good. He’s asleep, thank fuck. Facetime? You can say hello.” And of course, he was too polite to say no, even though he had all the excuses in the world. I grinned at him as his face popped up, showing him the tiny tike pooling a puddle of drool on my chest.

Then I saw his face. I don’t know what was wrong with me, asking him to Facetime. Drawing him into my life like I hadn’t broken up with him a month ago. It was clear that if he ever wanted to be my friend again, now wasn’t the time to push it. There was a strange longing in his eyes. And I remembered all the conversations we’d had in bed about how much he wanted children. I quickly turned the conversation to work, our safe fall-back, but it was still awkward.

“I’ll let you go back to work, Tamlin.” I said, when Tamlin had gone silent and just stared.

He looked away briefly. I could see the glow of the sun behind his head, from the massive windows of his corner office. “I’ll fax over the termination paperwork for my review, look at it as soon as you can? I know your not at work, but they want a response quickly.”

“Email it to me. I’ll digitally sign.”

He nods. Seems to mull something over. “You’re dating Rhys, right?” And how the hell did he know that? “I saw the way you looked at him. You used to look at me that way, once.” His smile is soft, a little bitter. “Did you at least break up with me before you slept with him?”

“Yes.” We still hadn’t slept together. But I don’t want to tell Tamlin that.

A weight seems to get off his shoulders. “Thank you, Feyre. Goodbye.”

“Bye.” And the line dies.

It was awkward. But I missed him. I shift Rob on my chest again and call Rhys. He’s excited to hear the good news and promises to give me a healthy lunch if I bring the documents over to him to review before I sign. I print off the documents in my home office and load Rob into the car seat, thankful that he’s such a heavy sleeper, because he’s a pain in the ass to transport when he’s awake.

It’s the first time I’ve ever been to Rhys’s gym during business hours. The door was open, and I hear grunting, punching, and a weird consistent walloping noise over gently played hard rock. A largely muscled tattooed man sits at a desk in front of a dividing wall, and he double-takes as he sees me and the toddler in my arms.

“Hey, little mama.” He says, leaning forward. Rob had again, grabbed the edge of my halter top, so the bunched up fabric showed a lot of side boob. There was also a large, defined strip of skin between my shirt and my work out leggings that he eyed. “I think you're in the wrong place.”

“What do you mean?” I know what he means. I obviously don’t belong. Now that I’m standing still, I have to shift Rob. I try to lay him on the slope of my torso while most of his weight rests on a cocked hip. My shirt must have ridden up more, because the man doesn’t look near my face. “This is Rhys’s gym, right?"

A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. “Pilates is on Friday, sweets. And the daycare is closed.” He leans over. “Bu-ut, since you’re here, we are looking for a new ring girl.”

“A ring girl, hu?” I had seen enough fighting matches on TV, thanks to Graysen. I knew what they were. Pieces of ass between boughs of violence. “You got on a bikini I can try on, big guy? Or do I have to audition in my underwear?” I shift Rob higher up my hip, since he’s slipping. “I gotta warn you though,” I leaned forward and faux whisper, “I’m not wearing panties”

He eyes me a little harder. “Oh, that’s perfectly fine—”

“Darling, there you are.” Rhys rounds the corner, between the chain-link fence and the metal detector. “Sal, I’m going to give you one warning, keep your comments and your eyes to yourself, or I’ll kick your ass.” He says it in an even-tempered voice, but as he walks over to me, there’s a prowl to his walk. He slides up next to me, putting a possessive hand on my ass as he gives me a kiss. His tongue slides against my mouth, begging invitation as his teeth nip. It feels fucking fantastic. He smells strongly of clean sweat, but his mouth is minty.

He pulls away, and a slow, sweet smile spread across my face as he gives my ass a squeeze so hard, it plays on the side of painful. “You not working today?”

“Depends, is free babysitting work?” I ask, and we both look down at Rob, who’s sleeping gently. “This is Rob. It’s literally the most peaceful you’ll ever see him.”

He snorts. “I'll enjoy it while it lasts, then." He guides me through the gym with his hand at the small of my back, and I blow a kiss to the guy behind the counter, Sal, as we pass.

I don’t know if women just don’t come to his gym, or if seeing me with Rhys throws people off, because everyone stops what their doing and sort of just stares at us. Even the teenager on the treadmill in the back, who nearly slips off. It’s endearing, and a little weird. I feel on display.

“Uh, wow. Lots of testosterone.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I suddenly wish you were frumpier.” He said, glaring at a few people as he takes me to a man sitting behind a desk, pecking at his laptop.

“Frumpier—seriously?” Silly, possessive man.

Rhys nods to the man behind the desk, who has rough-hewn features and brown hair tied at the nape of his neck. He's attractive, in a roguish way, and he squints at me with hazel eyes as if trying to measure my worth. He seems to like what he says, though, because he settles back with a satisfied smile on his face as he laces his fingers over his lean stomach. “Cass, this is Feyre-darling. Feyre, Cass.”

“Hiya, Feyre. Heard a lot about you.” He stands up by using the desk and extends a hand. I struggle to shift Rob’s weight, so I can take his hand—and am saved the trouble when Rhys effortlessly swings him into his arms. I watch Rob shift a little, realizing that he’s waking now that he doesn’t have breasts to lay on. Oh boy.

I take Cass’s dry, callused palm. “And I’ve heard about you, too.” I grin at him, then tug him forward a little so were both leaning conspiratorially. “Give me all the deets, he’s a hard bastard to read sometimes.”

Cass looks charmed, and I feel charmed just because he doesn’t once look away from my face. It’s easy, to lean against the edge of the desk, and hand over the paper’s I’d rolled up and shoved into the back of my workout leggings. “For you. The firm wants it back as soon as possible.”

They look over it together, and Cass seems just as excited by Rhys to be out of the contract. I warm that because he’s forgoing a multi-million dollar contract, and he’s been paid partially in advance, he has a substantial amount of money to pay back. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. I listen to them talk with a half an ear, because Rob is starting to wake up.

Its an instantaneous thing. One second, Rob is dead to the world, the next, filled with energy. I grin as Rhys jumps out of his skin, because a soft, spit covered hand is slapping his cheek. Rob eyes him for a second, then decides Rhys is a good enough to babble to. He goes off then, talking about… Power Rangers? I think. He’s only two and he has a terrible habit of thinking he makes perfect sense. While Cass is called away by someone, Rob dominates Rhys’s attention. There’s a lot of humming, and nodding, and it almost seems like he understands, because when he said, “seriously? That’s awesome dude” Rob goes ballistic and speaks twice as fast.

It melts my heart. Does something to me I haven’t ever experienced before. It creates a desire that confuses me. He’d make a good father. “You’re good at this.”

He looks at me, winking. “Can't say—holy fuck.” He jumps again, because Rob’s noticed me. He points, screams, and then tries his damn hardest to flail in Rhys’s arms to get to the ground. Rhys struggles for a second, but pure muscle has nothing on a two year old. The second Rob’s down, he’s flying off.

I look at Rhys, dead serious. “It has begun.”

“Christ—what was that?” We watch as Rob finds a boxing glove, then tries to beat the ever-living crap out of a tattooed man’s leg.

“I’m sorry, I’ll go wrangle him.” But Rhys stops me, a shit-eating grin on his face as he watches Cass chase the toddler around. He’s crouched over, he's stride awkward because his knees don't bend, running as Rob screams his delight and starts chucking off his clothes for no reason.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” He puts the contract on the desk. “Cass needs the exercise." 

“Hmm, now that I’m here, I feel like I should be working out, too.” I look at the men. Most seem fine with the two-year-old. A few are laughing. The others are invested in their punching and kicking.

“Want me to teach you a few things?” There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that has me following him to an empty boxing ring. It’s like a magnetic pull. He pushes up a rope, and it’s awkward, getting through. I have to get onto my knees to get on the ring, and crawl through. He’s laughing hysterically as I crawl on my hands and knees to the center.

The floor is springy, and there’s a hollow sound as I jump on it. I turn to Rhys, he’s a hell of a lot more graceful as he gets in the ring. I turn to him, fists up, swinging, and do a funny little footwork I’ve seen in boxing movies. “Come on, come at me. Gimmie what you got.”

He watches me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!” I jump around him, jabbing the air. He laughter is load and booming as I move around him, my fists doing light punches into his back muscle. I don’t know how he grabs my wrist—he wasn’t even looking behind himself—but he yanks, so I stumble around and in front of him by the direction of his hand. I don’t see him move, but he slaps my ass. It’s not a gentle, kind pat, but a thing that stings across my left cheek, making me wail.

I spin on him, hand on my ass, and his grin isn’t so charming now. “Lesson one, Darling. Don’t let your opponent control your momentum.”

“Really?” My ass stings.

“Ready to run screaming yet?” He asks. And there’s something alive about him. An intensity that makes me feel alive.

I charge at him, trying to punch his chest, but he steps aside. I don’t know how it happens. Don’t really understand what he did, but he glides my body to the floor of the ring. I struggle against the hold he had on my forearm, which he pins to the small of my back, but there’s no fighting his hold. “Lesson two, don’t let your opponent get you in a… compromising position.” I strain to look over at him, but my hair is in my face. I know what he’s going to do, though, because of his voice.

I’ve been slapped and spanked in bed before. It was usually light, teasing stuff, accompanying ‘you’re a bad girl, aren’t you’ kinda shit. Always a way to add to sex, rather than a sexual experience itself. I should have guessed that it would be different with Rhys. He’d even warned me. But the slap on my still tender ass is loud and _painful_. It hitches my breath, and it’s a visceral, animal-like reaction that has me trying to escape. I’m distantly aware that the sounds I’m making are terrible, but I can’t stop them. Can’t stop myself from trying to wriggle away, as if getting out of his hold will make the stinging pain leave.

But his hold is gentle, and iron tight. There’s nowhere to go. Not as his hand lands against on my ass—not to slap, but it still has enough force that it bounces—and he rubs the flesh till it’s nothing but warmth and a tingling.

He leans over me. “Would you like to get a membership? We have training classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays—but I think, if your serious about this, you should get a private class. So we can focus on you, one on one.” He squeezes my ass, like he had in the lobby. It’s different, now that the flesh is hypersensitive. I feel myself going a little boneless, and I groan.

“Uh, Rhys?”

Rhys releases me, then. And I remember—where in a goddamn gym. Adrenaline buzzes through me as I lift up onto my hands and knees, then shove all my hair back from my face to look at the teenager standing by the ring. He’s young, pimple-faced, and there’s something disturbingly silent and still about his gaze.

“I gotta pick up my little sister in an hour and I don’t wanna run out of time.” He’s looking at Rhys, but his eyes shift to me. His face get’s _red_ , a flush that makes the white-heads of his pimples stand out in stark relief, and he quickly looks away.

“I’m in the middle of something, Azriel—” Rhys says.

“Don’t be a dick.” I get up, needing to move. I have so much adrenaline in me it’s like I’ve taken three expresso shots. “You do work and stuff, I’ll go see what the tyke is up to.” I rush towards the ropes, but still as Rhys’s hand latches onto my bare ankle. I look down, at where he’s kneeling. There’s a question in his eyes, a worry, and I smile to dissuade it. My fingers run across his cheek. “When you’re done, let’s get lunch.”

Still, the worry is in his eyes. “We good?”

I don’t like that it had happened in such a public place. Don’t like that there’s a large audience—with a teenager—still watching us, but I hate the sight of his worry even more. I bend over him, grabbing his face so I can kiss him breathless and show him how much I’d liked what he’d done. Because I really had liked it. The pain had been startling, attention-grabbing, but now the pressure of it had fused into my body, giving a delicious warmth that made me aware of every muscle shift. I know I’m wet. I can feel it, in the way my underwear clings. “We’re more than good.” I whisper, when I break away. His pupils are dilated, and he looks ready to grab me again, so I jump back. “But you’re also at work.”

The mischievous grin is back. “Yeah. Okay.” He gets up and helps me out of the ring, holding the ropes up again. It’s even more awkward trying to get down, so I use the broad, gangly teenager’s shoulder to do it. He’s absolutely tense under my hand. “Hey, Feyre.” I turn to Rhys. “Saturday, dinner? Bring anything you need to stay the night?”

My voice cracks a little. “Okay.”

I turn, to the teenager who hasn’t moved and is staring at me like he’s absolutely embarrassed. I can’t help but look down—then quickly back up. Yeah, I can see why he’s embarrassed. “Get him, kid.” I slap his shoulder, then go looking for Rob.

* * *

I keep Rob for a while, and on Saturday morning I bring him and Nicky home. Elain and her husband rent out a three-bedroom Victorian, and I step on toys as I follow Nicky. “Hey, Feyre!” Elain calls, from the kitchen. I find her barefooted, rubbing her swelling belly as she tries to make a PBandJ. It’s insane how huge she is for being only four months pregnant. They tell me it’ll be twins this time. “Thanks for taking him again. You know, you really don’t have to—”

“Shut up. I know I don’t _have_ to.” I scoff, leaning against the counter, then backing away when my elbow touches something sticky. I’d offered buying them a maid to come in twice a week, but both Elain and Greysan refused, instead saying they wanted me to help pay for a portion of the medical bills threatening to tow them into bankruptcy. “How are you?”

“There’s still a lot of pain. They said the placenta hasn’t detached, but I’m still pretty much bedridden.” She rubs a little harder on her belly. “We’ll have to do a c-section, this time.” She says mournfully. Elain is big into natural things. Natural medicine, natural birth. She had Nicky and Rob here at the house, under the guidance of her OBGYN, but this time, she’d have to do it at the hospital.

“Hey, Feyre.” Greysan stomps into the kitchen from the back. He’s all gangly limbs and tattoos. The only part of him not covered in his face—but I think Elain would have tattooed his face, too, if Greysan hadn't prompt refused.

"Gray." He leans over to kiss my cheek.

"Oh. Call Mom, by the way." Elain says.. "She's been calling me all week, asking about you." She slaps the sandwich together and gives it to the squeeling two-year old who take three bites before throwing it against the cabinets. “Robbie!”

Delighted, the two-year-old goes running. A few seconds after, I hear Nicky screaming in absolute rage.

“Call. Mom.” Elain says. Her cheeks are pink with hormonal rage.

“I heard you the first time.” It was probably bad that I didn’t talk to her more. It wasn’t her fault that I associated her with the past and couldn’t separate her from the pain. She was just too interwoven in the bed memories. My therapist, back when the PTSD was still bad, had suggested I separate from her to help heal—and we just never got back into the groove of talking again.

“You want to stay for dinner?” Greysan asked, popping open a beer from the fridge.

“I would—but I have a date.”

Greysan sighs. “Seriously, you're ditching us for the boring suit?”

“Actually, I’m dating someone new. I don’t know if you remember him, Rhysand Night—”

“No fucking way.” Graysen’s mouth opens. “That dude who killed someone in the ring? For real? Have you told him about—”

“No.” Elain and Graysen has a big thing about sharing. Elain seems to think that speaking about that night is somehow cathartic.

Elain opens her mouth, and I glare at her. “Stop.” I quickly catch them up on my life, before promising, again, that I was going to call Mom. I headed out as they started up dinner, going into their familiar, doting domesticity. Usually I would slide right into it. Help out with dinner, play with the kids as Misty takes a break on the couch.

Instead I call Mom in the car. We small talk, but it’s pretty clear that we’ve become strangers. I hang up, feeling a weird sort of tension that doesn’t go away as I pack up an overnight bag and head over to Rhys’s. My heads filled with bad memories, and I’m feeling anxious, upset. I’m trying to put my keys inside my purse when I nearly run into him outside his door.

He steadies me with his hands on my arms. “Hey, beautiful.” He laughs. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He looks me over, and his grin deflates a little. “No overnight bag?”

“It’s in the car.” I fidget, twisting, feeling weird.

“Not sure if you want to stay?” There’s a disappointment in him, one that makes the feelings get worse.

I’m flustered. “I—” I didn’t know how to tell him I couldn’t stay overnight, even though I wanted to. How does someone even broach that topic? ‘Oh, hey, about that, I have terrible nightmares that make me panic and the last person I accidentally fell asleep next to got strangled before I realized I was awake’. Yeah. That would go over well.

If I did what Elain wanted, though… share the worst memories of my life with him, maybe he’d understand. But I didn’t want him to look at me differently. I’d just have to make sure I stayed up. I’d watch TV while he slept.

Rhys takes my hesitation as confirmation. But he doesn’t take in in stride. He doesn’t lean away.

He’s fast in grabbing me. He crushes me against his chest, one-armed wrapped around my waist, the other holding my head tightly so he could kiss me. It’s a fierce kiss. Needy. His tongue slips inside my mouth, seeking mine, and he sucks on the tip, before lightly grazing his teeth down. Just as I begin to feel the pain, he pulls back. Massages the hurt with his tongue. His hands ghost down, so he’s holding my ass firmly, pushing me against the erection I can feel against my stomach.

His kneads the flesh, rolling it—and all I can do is hold on and grind against that wonderful sway of his hips.

He breaks away abruptly, and his voice is strained. “I’m about ten seconds away from ripping off your damn clothes and having you in the street—come on.”

But the heats left us, as he leads me up to his loft. He sits me on his kitchen island and cooks. Apparently he makes his own couscous. Effortlessly, we talk about my job, my volunteering at the women’s shelter, a few childhood memoires. He doesn’t seem to notice that I never mention anything before the age of eleven, which I’m thankful—and anxious—about. He tells me about running his gym, the people he trains, the other products he endorses to help keep the cost of the gym’s membership down.

We clean up together. And moving with him, talking to him, doing things with him is just natural. We find ourselves on the couch. I half expect him to lunge on me, but he doesn’t. When I move to lunge on him, instead, he shakes his head. Stops me with a look. “Have you ever been to a cage fight?”

Guilt surges up my stomach, and I realize he’s going there. He wants to share his worst moment with me. Am I brave enough to do the same?

“Yes. Once.” I lean back. “Got tickets and went with Elain. It was a good fight, I think, but short. The man, I can’t remember his name, he had a loose disc in his spine,” Rhys tenses up tightly next to me. “So when the Lady Killer punched him, it was instantaneous. He fell, his spine broke, and he was dead before they could rush him to the hospital.” I look to him, at his pained face.

I take his hands into my own and hold them on my lap. There’s a rawness to him that makes me bleed inside. “You know, then.” A shiver runs down his pine, and he leans forward, his head resting against my shoulder. “But you’re here anyway.”

I think about telling how I almost recognized him the first time we met. How I was Googling him when he came in to ask for a date. How when I saw his face that night, the tortured, horrified expression of a good man realizing he’d killed someone and how I felt a deep, unabated connection to him. The conversation would flow from there. I’d expose myself to him, just as he’d done for me.

But I wasn’t brave like he was. Instead, I force him to look up at me and meet my gaze. And I tell him the only thing that really matters. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

There’s a soft sound that digs out of his throat, and a warmth in his eyes terrifies and thrills me. He reaches for me, easily lifting me off the couch. I wrap my legs around him, staring at his face as he leads me towards his bedroom. He crawls into the middle of his bed on his knees. Places me down and rests there, his weight supported by his elbows.

It’s not what I thought it would be. Were not clawing each other’s clothes off, half mad with the need to get off. He’s not slamming me into walls, onto counters, not whispering dirty things into my ears or making me mad with lust. Instead, he’s touching my face softly with his fingertips. And he’s staring at me with all his attention, all his intensity—and I feel worshiped. Beautiful. Desired. Terrified.

It’s different. New. Though I’m fully clothed and he hasn’t touched my body, I feel open and naked.

I reach up, trace the curve of his lips with my fingers. I watch his mouth open, and I stick my finger inside the warm wetness. His lips close around my second knuckle, his tongue rolling around the finger as he gently sucks. The sensation goes straight to my labia, and it feels like an electrical current zapped me, zinging up and down—he bites down. Hard. Sucking my finger with more intensity. And my hips arch up into him.

Rhys released my finger. His lips find mine and I’m lost to the way our tongues glide, how our heavy breathing pants in the air, how his body moves against mine as we try to touch and get the friction we need. He’s a long, solid weight above me, and I shove my hands under his shirt to grip the muscles of his back as his hips rock between my legs—

He breaks away, gasping. “I need to taste you.” He explains, when I try to get him to come back. He slides down my body. Stops at the apex of my thighs. We’re still both completely clothed, but my dress and underwear don’t seem to matter. He takes the skirt and slides it up my stomach, his palms gliding against my skin. “So soft.” Then his mouth lowers onto the barrier of my lace underwear. He wets the fabric with his tongue, his mouth, and then stills when he feels the small rings on either side of my outter labia. He teases them with his tongue, trying to figure out what they are. I can tell the moment he realizes it’s a piercing, and that the chain that connects the two is inside my folds. His breath ghosts over my flesh, before his teeth scrape my clit with a sharp, blissful pressure.

I need more. “Get it off—Rhys, let me,” I flip the dress up higher, working to get my fingers under the string sides of the thong so I can pull it down.

He helps, nearly ripping it off my legs. And then he just takes in the sight of me bared open in front of him. His fingers trace down one side of the chain, and I can feel the small stone leave my folds before he yanks sharply. I twist, writhing at the pressure. “I fucking love this piercing.” His voice is all bass.

I got it in my wilder days when sex was nothing more than picking up a stranger at a bar or via an app. I had thought it would help me orgasm easier, but there’s no substituting a partner who cares.

“Feyre.” His voice is a snap, and I jerk to meet his suddenly hard eyes. “I want you to watch me devour you.”

And who the fuck can say no to that? I groan, as he takes me ass in each hand and shoves my hips up a little, so I can see his tongue lick around my clit in small, teasing circles. So I can watch him put his mouth on me, tongue dipping inside, before he sucks. Inner labia and the chain enter the pressurized vortex of his mouth, and I wrap my legs around his face, trying to grind. His hands start kneading my ass again. And he devours. Sucks hard, licks deep, bites sharply.

There is no build to my orgasm. No warning. Its just suddenly there, so strong I scream, legs clamping, twisting as I shudder. He lets me fuck his face as I ride it out, and then gently puts my hips back onto the bed.

He takes off his clothes quickly. And I roll from side to side to help him with mine. He mostly does it himself, though, lifting and placing and tugging my euphorically limp body. And then his mouth is on my breast, and I can feel glorious skin touching mine as he licks my nipple, then takes it between his teeth and _pulls_ —

“Fuck!” I follow the motion, chest arching, while trying to shove at his shoulders. My nipple scrapes out between his teeth, and then his mouth is there, soothing the ache, taunting it into a hot burn. “ _Fuck_.”

“Last chance to back out, Darling.” He whispers, thumbing my other nipple as he pushes and rolls my breast with his palm. There’s an unopened condom between two fingers.

I snatch it, and shove at his chest till he sits back between my legs. I take in every glorious inch of him. He’s got a nice dick, thick and long. I reach for him, wrap my fingers around soft skin pulled taunt, and feel his entire body go tight as he hissed out a breath through his nose. I touch him lightly, teasing his skin. Get a feel for how he likes to be held, touched. It’s pretty obvious, though, that what he wants is a hard grip. The second I squeeze him, he’s on me.

I feel him reaching between us, putting on the condom blindly while his face presses into my stomach, breathing in my skin. It’s a shocking skill, how practical his hands are as he pinches the tip and rolls. He very obviously is well acquainted with condoms.

When he’s done, he moves up my body. His mouth sears itself onto mine, so I can taste myself on his tongue as I wrap myself around his frame. I get a little lost in it, in the passion of him, but still as I feel his head near my entrance.

He pulls away. Draws back to look into my eyes as he pushes inside me. I’m shocked a little, at his gentleness. It’s wonderful, how he can flip back and forth between the two; be the man who is tender, and the man makes stinging pain give way to blinding heat.

He stills, when he’s all the way in. And I can’t stop staring into his eyes. I feel full. So incredibly fucking full with emotions, with him.

“Feyre.” His voice is soft but wrecked. Beyond hoarse.

He begins to rock, not entering and exiting, just rock into me. His pubes brush gently against my clit, sending shivers through me. He grabs my hip in one hand and pulls me half off the bed, moving me so the angle get’s more intense. I hold him, using my thigh muscles to rock with him as he holds himself at a half push up. And we rock together, wonderfully in synch.

I feel the build up this time. I clench his bicep, throwing my head back to moan. “More, Rhys, come on, stop holding back.”

He lifts up, using both hands now to hold my hips as he gets onto his knees. Only my head and the tops of my shoulders touch the bed as he goes from gentle rocking to brutal, shocking thrusts. I try to move with him, to help, but it becomes pretty clear that he doesn’t need it. The only thing it accomplished was ruining the tempo he’d created, so I stop, and he takes a moment to throw my legs up his chest. He pounds into me, in an insane display of strength, to enter and exit me with so my brutality that my breast become a force of nature.

I reach between my legs. Touch my clit with two tiny circles before I’m gone. I think I fight Rhys a little, thrashing through the bliss, but the position he has me in, the strength of him, keeps him from stopping. He pounds as I ride the intensity of the wave, as my orgasms milks and tightens him. His tempo changes, though, and he thrusts into me like he can’t bear to leave. Just digs in deeper and deeper as he grows thicker—then roars as he cums.

We’re covered in seat. My limbs are shaking from exertion. And I feel fucking great. Sore and languid and sexy. But there’s something new there, as he gently exits me. He lays my body down on the bed carefully, reverently, fingers rubbing the red marks his fingers had left in my flesh. There’s a warmth in me. A budding happiness I’ve never felt but am starting to get addicted to.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for some porn and some angst!

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I find myself waking up with hot sunshine on my skin and a warm body pressing me into the mattress. I reach for my phone the end table, the sleep still holding me down. I’d slept for 7 hours. Without nightmares. With someone next to me.

I wiggle a little in his arms. Rhys’s on top of me, lying on his stomach with one arm and one leg pinning me down. I manage to get out from underneath him without waking him, so I can go to the bathroom. I wink at my own reflection, feeling giddy. And I look giddy, too. My hair is a wild mess around my face because of round two, when he’d used my hair to wrap around his fist as he thrust into me from behind. Or maybe it was round three—when I’d shoved my hands into my hair as I luxuriated ontop of him.

It’s a good look on me. I pee. Use his toothbrush to get the funk out of my mouth.

When I get back into bed, I think I’ve succeeded in not waking him up. I plan on lying next to him, running my fingers across his skin, basking in a good night’s sleep—but the second my weight dips the mattress down, he’s grabbing me. My back slams into the soft padding and he shoves my legs apart so he can rest between them. I can feel his teeth, as he puts his face into my neck, feel his smile on my skin. “Morning, beautiful.” He shifts his weight, and his erection gently touches the inside of my thigh.

“Good morning.” I run my hand down the back of his head.

“Are you sore?” He asks, moving, making his erection more known.

“Mmm—yeah.” It was a delicious, wonderful rub. “But there are other holes.”

He lifts up, and there’s an adoration in his gaze that makes me glow. “God, you’re perfect, you know that?” I preen, and then scream because he’s manhandling me with a shocking speed so I’m flipped onto my stomach. “I want to do something, Feyre. Tell me to stop, say no, if you don’t like it.”

On my stomach, I’m vulnerable. I can’t see him. Can’t prepare for what’s coming. But it feels good, exhilarating. He works my hips up, so while my face is still pressed into the mattress, my ass is up in the air. I wiggle it at him, and I’m rewarded with one of his no-hold back slaps. It jerks my hips forward, and I find myself trapped, again, as he grabs the back of my neck to keep me from moving. He leans over me to do it, pinning me down.

And then he slaps again. Some place. It’s a sharp, aching sting and I scream at him wordlessly as panic overrides my system. But there’s nowhere to go. The more I struggle, the more my breath gets constricted.

He rubs the tender flesh. Then slaps again. It’s a maddening cycle of sharp, aching pain and then tingling warmth. And after a minute, my body seems to settle. The adrenaline disappears, or morphs, I’m not sure, and I get boneless. I drift in a weird kind of peace where the pain isn’t pain, but an awakening sensation that’s synonymous with need. “Such a nice ass, looks good all red, darling.” And his hand leaves my neck, though I’m beyond fighting now.

Fingers slip inside me, and we both groan. “So fucking wet.” And I _am_. Probably wetter and readier than I’ve ever been my entire life. His fingers leave me, and he shushes the gentle whimper that leaves my mouth. He slaps, again, but not on my ass, but my pussy. It’s a wet, harsh feeling that has me panting. I think I want to scream, but what comes out a hoarse moan.

Slick fingers touch my asshole. He uses my own wetness to slick me up, to stick a single finger inside the tight rim of muscle. Then he’s leaning over me, pressing me deeper into the mattress with his finger still inside so he can reach for his end table. A condom appears. A bottle of lube.

He uses the lube to fully enter the tight rim of muscle, to work it loose with a single-minded determination that’s gentle compared to the occasional slaps he sends my way. I tighten around his fingers at each slap, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just keeps working me, circling his fingers, opening them and scissoring them. There’s no rush to it, and I lose myself in the sensation.

By the time a condomed cock touches the loose rim, I’m beyond ready. He aligns us up, and he curses as I push again against him a furious thrust, so he’s all the way in. There’s a delicious burn, which joins with all the rest. “Fuck—fuck—gunna cum—” He forces me to still. His breath hot and fast against my back as he arches over me. “Feyre-darling, stop squeezing me or this is going to end quick.”

I tried to loosen my muscles. Try to relax. After a few gasping moments, he’s manhandling me again, so my back is to his chest and I’m sitting on his parted thighs. His hands are everywhere. Squeezing my breasts, running up and down my arms, trailing across my stomach. He settles with one hand between my legs and the other wrapped around my throat. His teeth scrape against my shoulder, before licking away the not-hurt.

“Put your legs wide, either side of me.” I do. “Feet flat against the bed, yeah, like that.” And I get why he wants me to, as he starts to move. He pushes up, and I use my thighs to work a countermovement. We’re slow, at first, testing it out, finding a rhythm. But we pick up speed. It’s not the fast, brutal slamming I was half expecting. It’s too needy for that.

My hands don’t know where to go. I settle on his bicep. On grabbing onto his side. My thighs start to burn after a minute, and he uses his grip on my neck to keep me going, leading me up and down so I can be impaled by him. I can breathe, but it’s short, gasping breathes that leave me oxygen deprived. Leaves me lightheaded.

I cum embarrassingly quick. And hard. And he’s gone within seconds, following me down with a strangled “Feyre”.

* * *

 _Can’t get you out of my mind. What are you doing_? I grin at it as I make my way out of the office. It’s been two days since I’d seen him, and I missed him.

_Me too. Just leaving work. Can I come over?_

The reply is immediate. _Don’t even ask—just cum_. There’s a winky face next to it.

“Oooh, you have it bad, girl.” Mor says, shaking her head as she locks up the office behind her. I’d told her all about our date, about the incredible sex. And Clara, too, since the three of us had dinner together at an out of the way bistro the other night. Clara is a vibrant, happy person who liked to laugh and get heated about politics. Seeing the two of them together just seemed... complete.

“I know.” I sigh, pretending to swoon as I lean into her. “We’ll all have to go out to dinner sometime, yeah?”

“Hell yes. I want to see you with this guy. But, for now, toodles.” She leaned down and kissed my cheek. “I got a hot date of my own!” Still, it takes a good thirty minutes for us to part on the sidewalk and make our way to our own cars. I’m giddy as I pull up to Rhys’s gym.

He opens the door the second I knock. No smile. No words. He just grabs me, kicks the door closes, and slams me against it with his body. He holds my face tenderly while his mouth attacks mine. His erection presses into my stomach and those rolling hips work into me.

I run my hands down his shirt. I make quick work of undoing his jeans and holding him in my hand. His lips still, and his exhales into my mouth. He takes off my blouse. He has my bra off, before I stop him. Even though I know pushing against his chest does nothing, he still breaks away and takes a step back. His eyes search mine, looking to see if I was okay.

That concern disappears when I slide down the wall and get onto my knees. “Fuck—let me go grab a condom—”

I shake my head. “You clean?”

He stills. His dick twitches, taking up my attention, and I grab it in that firm, kung-fu grip he likes so much. I’m rewarded with a bit of precum, and I smooth it over his head. I look up, because he hasn’t spoken, and his face looks a little wrecked. There’s a bruise on his cheek I hadn’t noticed in the darkness. But it’s his half lidded, lusty eyes that are devastation. “Rhys?”

“Yeah, darling?”

“You clean?”

“Last I checked, yeah.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “Four months ago. I had partners, but always wore a condom.”

I nod. It’s all I need to know. I tease him with gentle kisses, mostly because I know he wants more. I can feel the tension in his thigh as I rest my hand there, gently pumping and kissing and licking. He’s holding back, and his fingers twitch at his sides. When I’m ready, I open my mouth, glide him in.

Blowjobs are a mixed bag for me. Sometimes I enjoy giving them, sometimes the idea repulses me. He’s clean tasting, though, and thick. And I want to give it to him, which makes the experience hot for me. I tease out his likes and dislikes. He likes me to suck hard. Likes me to twist my wrist on the root of him as I stroke. Likes the gentle graze of teeth, but only on the tip of his head.

His hands find themselves wrapping around my head, winding in my hair. I make encouraging noises, and he tightens his hold, his grip almost painful not but quiet. I look up at him, see him watching me with a tight, agonized look on his face. And, keeping eye contact, I drop my hand to his other thigh and take him all the way to the root. It’s difficult to breath, and the first contact of his dick against the back of my throat makes me want to gag—but after a few bobs, it’s easier. My throat opens, I remember how to breathe through my nose.

One hand lifts away from my hair. Catches a tear that’s leaked out, before going back to my hair. “Can I— _oh_.” The air punches out of his gut, because I’ve moved my hands to his shapely now-naked ass. And I push him into my face.

He loses all control, then. His cock thickens on my tongue and his hands get together in my hair. It’s necessary, though, he’s fucking my face with so much force that, if he let go, I’d probably smash into the door. And it’s painful. Not the good kind of painful, but the just painful kind of painful. My throat aches and my jaw hurts and my hair is getting pulled out. But it’s also filthy. Because I’m drooling heavily down my chin, and it’s touching his slapping balls. And he’s making these noises that have lost all semblance of sense and thought.

It’s worth it. “I’m gun-gunna—I’m gunna cum. Swallow or no?”

I’d been holding onto his ankles for dear life, but I trail my hands up. Go back to his shapely ass in a silent _go ahead_ movement. And he cums, long, hot, creamed semen down my throat. He holds me so tightly I feel a migraine coming on.

But when he releases me, his fingers massage my scalp. And a ‘thank you’ comes out of his hoarse lips. So when I pull away, I tease the aftershocks of his orgasm by rubbing my tongue against his head over and over again, and squeezing him around the root.

He trembles, but doesn’t stop me. And when I’m done, he falls to his own knees in front of me. His forehead touches mine, and his eyes are closed. His breath still gasping.

* * *

Hours later, we lay tangled up in each other in bed, still sweaty, but satiated. I lay half on his chest, and his hands play in my hair. He thinks it’s delightful that they get caught, and he works his hands in, detangles his fingers, and goes about doing it all over again. My hair must look like a rats nest by now.

I feel settled. Out of my mind, but inside my mind, too.

“I set a date,” He says, speaking into the soft silence we’d created. “For a fight.”

“Mmmmm.” I move my head and kiss his chest. Pull at the hairs with my lips. “It’s your first fight, isn’t it? Since…”

“Yeah.” His voice sounds contemplative. “It seemed time.”

His hand detangles. Rectangles. His other one moves over the skin of my back, up and down. 

* * *

Mor stays late with me as I work over my neglected cases. She texts back and forth with Clara, ignoring my mumbled curses and I work over a particularly challenging case. Both something sits in the air, and I tense as she puts her phone down. “Does he know?”

I look up. I don’t have to ask what she’s talking about. “No.”

“He’ll understand, don’t you think? Because of what happened to him.”

I do think he’ll understand, which is the crazy thing. I don’t think he’ll look at me or treat me different after, either. Not after the past month of mind-blowing sex, comfort, and easy dates. He’s not what’s holding me back, though. It’s _me_. I can’t speak about it. Not to someone who doesn’t already know, not to someone who does. “It just… hasn’t come up yet.”

She gives me her ‘don’t bullshit me’ look. “It’ll never come up unless you start the conversation, Feyre.”

I look away. “I’m not ready yet.”

She doesn’t push. She knows. But I’m not hopeful enough to think this is the last of the conversation.

* * *

On Friday, Graysen and Elain decide it’s been too damn long since we hung out. Elain's in a proper hormal fit, and she storms into the office and demands that we go out to the bar. Then she storms out and demands the same thing of Mor. We find ourselves at our usual place for happy hour and it flows into the usual taunting, sarcastic drawls it always is, when the four of us are together. 

We drink, and I’m pleased to notice that after getting a buzz, I don’t want much more.

I’m satiated. It’s new. It’s wonderful.

With my back to the crowded bar, I’m a bit surprised to hear a familiar voice. I turn, smiling at Tamlin out of habit. I’m a little confused why he’s here, though, because the bar truly isn’t his scene. “Hey, Feyre.” His voice is a little warm, and he leans in to kiss my cheek, like old times. His hand gently brushes against my hip as he leans away. “Hey, Mor.” He gives her a smile, but no kiss. No hip touch. He turns to Elain and smiles. “Elain. Graysen.”

“Tamlin.” Elain nods. Graysen doesn't say anything. 

Tamlin introduces us to the man he’s with, a new associate at his firm. The man is older, but nice enough looking, and maybe an inch or two taller than me without my shoes on. We all slip easily into conversation, and it’s thrilling to realize that Tamlin’s gotten over me, that we can shoot shit about cases and work gossip like its old times. Sometimes Mor, Elain, Graysen, or the new associate join in the conversation—but it’s clear they’re disinterest. Graysen throws his arm around my shoulder as he talks to them about football or something. Mor’s a die hard fan, and the new associate seems to think a certain quarterback is the new messiah.

I notice Rhys over Tamlin’s shoulder the second he walks into the bar. It’s random chance, but my eyes pull towards a vaguely familiar glide of muscles like I’ve been trained to look for him all my life. His eyes catch mine and he heads over. His eyes move between me and Graysen, me and Tamlin.

Tamlin notices my distraction, and his voice trails off. He turns as Rhys reaches us, snapping into his businessman persona. Rhys nods at him, greets him with a “Tamlin”. But his eyes haven’t left Graysen’s tattooed, gangly arm as he bitches to Mor about a playoff. Rhys’s face gives nothing away, but there’s a darkness in his eyes purple eyes.

I scoff at his jealousy, even if it gives me a tingly thrill. “This is my brother-in-law, Greysan. And that pregnant woman over there, that's my sister, Elain.” I say.

Greysan turns his head when he hears his name. See’s Rhys and his eyes narrow. “Ah. You’re that guy,” He snaps his fingers in front of my chest as Rhys tenses. “Mr. Wonderful—the glorious cock.”

Mor snorts up her drink, and the new associate tries as hard as he can to help her from choking before she’s bursting out laughing. My face feels hot, but the embarrassment is worth it because Rhys is grinning his devilish, mischievous grin. He leans over to me, around Greysan’s arm, and gives me a sweet, dry kiss on the lips.

I can’t help but look at Tamlin when he breaks away. It’s instinctual. After years of friendship and two years of fuck-buddy time, Tamlin is probably the closest thing I’ve ever had to a long-lasting relationship And I know him. Though his face is poker-smooth, there’s a pain there in his eyes that erases all of the easiness we’d shared the last hour or two. Maybe he couldn’t be my friend.

I look back at Rhys quickly, trying to shove away the irrational hurt in my chest. “What are you doing here?”

“I stopped by your office to see if you wanted dinner—some guy, Isaac, told me you were dragged away by a tattooed hooligan, so I thought I’d come and rescue you.”

I lean into him, “Thanks for the saving.”

“Anytime.” He kisses the top of my head, and Greysan’s arm get’s replaced by his own. The conversation shifts, with him there. He and Elain seem naturally drawn to each other, and her gentle humor matches his wickedly cunning barbs. Pretty quickly, Tamlin and his associate leave and the night passes.

“So, man, you gotta tell me, what was life like growing up with her? She’s always so tight-lipped about her childhood.” Rhys says. He notices the way I tense. The way I look at Elain sharply, and how Elain is pressing her lips together.

“We were raised in the hills, out in the desert,” Elain says. Mor leans across him and we hold hands without looking or needing to communicate. “Sprawling lawn. Estate. Maids. Grand foyer. Whole fucking nine yards. It was a nice, beautiful, gilded cage.”

“All right!” Mor snaps up. “Hey, Rhys, I know you have ink under that shirt.” She points to his Henley.

“You got ink?” Elain zeros in. Art is her passion and it had shifted to body-art when we were kids.

“Yeah.” Rhys looks down at me, something dark in his gaze that I don’t want to explore. He lifts up his shirt, and I don’t breathe right for the rest of the night.

* * *

Rhys finds himself following me home. We don’t talk about spending every night together, but it’s magically happened. We’ve slipped into the easy, comfortable, right rhythm of a relationship. The only thing that ever get’s uncomfortable is the fact that he sometimes admonishes me for drinking coffee late at night. To him, I should just sleep. Especially since I’m so meticulous about counting the hours I _do_ sleep.

Other than that, it’s great.

I kick off my shoes as soon as I enter, and he makes himself comfortable as I head to the bedroom to change out of my work clothes. I have a lot of his shirts here, clean and dirty, since they’re probably the most comfortable things I’ve ever slept in.

He looks up from the couch as I walk in. Hauls me onto his lap so I’m straddling him. He’s hard, and he presses against my naked sex, with only his jeans to keep us from touching. It’s relaxing, but I’m still tense. And he’s too observant, too tuned into with me not to notice. He rubs my bare thighs up and down, trying to soothe me.

I wait for him to ask. Wait for him to pester a festering wound. He surprises me, though. “So, you had drinks with Tamlin.”

I find myself relaxing. “Yeah. He happened to be there.” He searches my face. “It wasn’t planned, if that’s what you’re thinking. You didn’t seem to mind that he was there.”

“That’s because I saw a guy standing next to you, holding you into his side, Darling. Seemed the bigger threat.” His voice is rough, and his fingers dig into my thighs. “I’m not sharing you.”

“You aren’t. You won’t.” I shake my head. “I’ve never been monogamous before. But I am with you.” I grin, remembering the way he bit my neck in the elevator. The first sign that he was kinky, that he was possessive.

He doesn’t smile back. His eyes are still tense, and I can tell it’s difficult for him to think about me with other people. The longer we stay together, the more we fall into a relationship. And also, the more painful it is for him to hear about past boyfriends, or my more extreme slutty stage. He’s never an ass about it, but I can tell it makes him uncomfortable. We’d shared the usual ‘who have you slept with’ talk. He’d been a fuckboy, going from one girl to the other as if they were shiny new toys. It was rare, though, for him to keep a girl longer than two nights, or to see them again after. Me, though, my past was a lot more complicated. He seemed to internally freak out when I mentioned my habit of getting bored and leaving.

And that stage of stasis should have come already. We were practically living with each other, which was a sure fire way of peaking my disinterest. It hadn’t happened with Rhys, though. Instead, I just grew to crave him more. His hot sex. His gentle moments. His cooking. Our conversation. The way he shared his life with me.

I lean towards him. Push against his trapped erection and place my braless chest against his harder one. He stiffens a little more against me. “Your mine now.” He moans, then, because I lift up to rub against his hardness. His hands shift up, move under his shirt, caress the skin of my waist and back.

“Does that mean I get to do whatever I want to you?” I ask. His head is against the back of the couch, so his throat is bared to me. Still, I see his teeth flash in a smile. He nods.

I suck and nip at his throat. Use my hands to roam across the skin of his chest without taking off his shirt. I lick up to his ear, tugging on the lobe with my teeth, glorying in the way his hands spasm, then tighten across my back. I whisper the words in his ear. “I know what I want. I want to feel you.” He murmurs his agreement. Works his hips up to get back the friction I’d stopped as I loved on his throat. “I mean _you_. I’m on the pill. I’m clean.” I’d gotten tested, just in case. I knew Rhys had too, since he had annual checkups at the doctor’s for his training—he showed me the STD screening.

He doesn’t answer. Just yanks off his shirt over my head, grabs my ribs, and hauls me up so my breasts are level with his mouth. Raw need floods through me, and I hold onto his head as he shoves as much on my flesh into his mouth as he can and then bites. He starts sucking, as he takes the other nipple in his fingers and rolls it.

Beneath me, I can feel his hand working. I hear the zipper. Feel his hips arch as he puts his pants down. “I’ve wanted to cum inside of you so badly it hurts.” He said, when his mouth leaves my nipple with a wet pop. “Feel that clinging pussy slide up and down my bare cock. I need it. Now.”

His hand touches between my legs. Finds me wet—and then there is no preamble. He aligns us, then slams me down. He hadn’t taken off his pants, just lowered them, so his underwear cupped his balls and the zipper of his jeans presses against my ass. And it’s wonderfully, hotly fucking dirty, to be completely naked while he hasn’t even taken off his shoes.

Rhys’s eyes are closed. His jaw is clenched. I’ve never had sex without a condom before. Not even when I was young and stupid. It feels different, but not totally different. He’s hotter inside of me. But mostly it’s a connection, an emotion. But for him, I think it’s a totally different experience.

His fingers dig into my ribs. “Ride me.” It’s a demand, said tersely, his eyes wild. “Look at you, fuck. You're so tight and wet. I’m going to fill up this hot cunt and make it mine. I want to leave myself inside of you. Let the whole fucking world know your mine.”

His words have me moving immediately. I don’t like the angle though, and how limited we because of our position on the couch. It wouldn’t have been a problem, before, but with Rhys, sex is a full-bodied experience that needs a lot of room.

I shift on him, taking me legs out from beneath me to plant my feet down on either side of his hips. I lean back, and back, and back, till I’m gripping the edge of the coffee table behind me. Till all I can see is my torso, my hips, the sight of my legs splayed out on either side of him and the hunger in his eyes.

And we move. I roll my hips, feeling my stomach clench as I work to round my movements out while he thrusts in and out of me. With each thrust, each roll, my clit brushes against his skin. My ass rubs his zipper. My breast bounce like crazy, wild things.

They seem to captivate him, and he reaches for them. Grips one in his hand. He surprises me by slapping my breast, but I’ve gotten used to the casual violence of him. I’ve learned to absorb the pain, because the sooner I take it in and let it go, the sooner it builds to a pressure to give backbone to my bliss. I feel the sting morph into a delicious, tingling heat that makes grinding against him, fucking him, that much better.

I cum first, and his orgasm seems to take him by surprise. He grunts, gripping me and shoving me upright against his chest as he pounds deeper and deeper inside of me as I feel him twitch. It’s new, the flood of heat that spreads inside of me. And he holds me tightly, pushing in deeper. As if he can’t get far enough inside.

Maybe that’s just me, though. My own feelings.

* * *

Sal greets me with a, “Hey, little mama.” It seems to be my nickname in the gym, and everyone that wasn’t Cas or Rhys called me it. Even the surly teenager, Azriel. “Looking hot, as always.”

“Thanks Sal. Let me know when you get that bikini in.” With a wink, I walk past him. To where Rhys is doing shirtless pull ups.

Cas stands in front of him, timing him. As if doing a pullup wasn’t hard enough, but consecutive ones under a time limit? It does make him fit, though, and I can’t help but drool a little as I watch his biceps and stomach tighten and loosen, tighten and loosen.

“He’s almost done.” Cas says, as he notices me. “How are you, Feyre?”

“Good. I feel fat now, though.” I say and stop because Rhys has stopped. He’s pulled halfway up to the bar, muscles effortlessly straining to keep him suspended in the air like fucking Superman. “I mean, uh. Flabby?” I’ve toned up, though, since having sex with Rhys. My thighs are more muscular, and my core is great.

His eyes narrow. He drops down to the floor while Cas throws up his hands, grumbling about distractions as Rhys takes careful, well-placed steps towards me. I think he’s going to chastise me, but instead, he takes his—literally—dripping body and rubs his sweat all over me. “Oh my god, seriously?” I push at his chest, laughing. “Gross! I come all the way over her to pick up contracts, and this is the thanks I get?”

“This is the punishment you get for not realizing how fucking gorgeous you are.” He says seriously, but he’s grinning. “Also, you smell really good. Are you wearing perfume?”

Mor had spritzed herself in my office, while I was working. I got caught in the cloud. “I _used_ to smell good.”

He throws my hair over my shoulder and leans down to kiss my neck. “I’ll take a shower, then we can talk about the contract over a late lunch.”

“I can’t.” I said mournfully. “I have to get back to the office soon. Tamlin is coming at three for a deposition on a case where we have co-defendants.” I was here, one, to see him, and two to look over the part of his next fighting contract that he said looked wrong.

His jaw flexes. “Glad I coated you in my sweat now, then.”

“Next time, just pee a circle around me.” I push at his chest and notice for the first time that Cas is gone. “Show me your contract, big guy.”

He leads me to the desk that I’ve learned is the ‘office’ of the gym. He hands me some papers. “It’s not like any contract I’ve had before. It’s three times the amount of money that I got last time I fought, which is weird. They added a dropout clause for Cas, and they don’t have to name the contender until seven days before the fight.”

I hummed, speed reading over the legal jargon. It was an easy contract to read. No superfluous wording that could create loopholes and unintended meanings based on how it was interpreted. That was a good sign. “Why are you worried about the price? Your reputation has grown. The scandal, on top of the fact that your returning after a small break would make you more desirable, therefore more expensive.”

“It’s not really that bad. It’s just weird. It’s a small fight. Nothing major.”

“Okay. And why is the dropout clause for Cas unusual?” I consider the contract, before flopping them down. “And what even is a dropout clause?”

“If I drop out before the fight, I usually have to pay a hefty penalty fee. Common clause for any fighter. But it doesn’t make sense why they’d give one to my trainer, too. As far as I know, they’ve never tried to hook in a trainer or manager into it. They’re not involved with any of the sales or marketing for the match. But his clause is almost as big as mine.”

“And there’s nothing in there about him getting money for being in the match, it’s all between the two of you?” He nods. “That is weird. You’re risk vs reward. His is just risk.” I look towards Cas, who’s talking to a man holding a heavyweight bag, pointing to the guy trying to punch his way through it. “What do you think, why would they want Cas monetarily invested?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. It just doesn’t make sense. Cas’s fine with it, he wasn’t planning on dropping my training, anyway, and he trusts me not to drop out. It’s just bothers me.”

It bothered me, too. “I’ll take a copy of the contract and look it over from a few different angles. Get the interns to research if this has happened before. What about not naming the fighter?”

“Usually you know who you’re going to fight before it happens. Helps with the training. If I study up on old fights, I can strategize with Cas. But that’s…” He shrugged and leaned back against the desk. “Maybe they won’t let me know because I lost my tittle and the guy who holds it now just retired? We assume it’s Caputo, but it’s weird that they wouldn’t tell me.”

“And you could be studying the wrong opponent. While they know you.” I frowned, thoughts connecting. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe they want to get a higher edge on you. It’s been a while since you’ve been in the ring, but it’s pretty fair game to say you’ll still fight in a similar way if you have the same trainer. They’d have months to study you, but you're blind. It could be someone else other than Caputo.” I hum. “Okay. How quickly do you need this?”

“Two days.”

I frown. “What? I thought the fight is in two _months,_ after you fight this weekend. What’s the rush?”

“They want this signed before my qualifying rounds this weekend. The deal isn’t a go until I win, but they want this wrapped up quickly.”

“Shit. They’re angling for something.” The weirdness in the contract was one thing, but weirdness and a limited time? If I wasn’t dating Rhys, he wouldn’t even have time to hire a decent lawyer to look over this contract, much less to look at it in depth. “Fine, I’ll work on it. What’s the most pressing issue?”

“Cas’s clause.”

I nod, grabbing my purse off the table. “I have to go. I’ll take this.” I stuff the contract into my purse. “And get back to you.”

“It’s only one thirty.” He points out.

“I have a file to read before the deposition.” I move to leave, but he grabs me. I’m pulled into his arms, against his chest. He kneads my ass and claims my mouth, taking away any protests before they can really form. An hour later, I’m running seriously late, the smell of Rhys on my clothes and the wet heat of him inside of me.

* * *

I’m surprised when I get to the office that Tamlin and I’s co-clients are already there, but he isn’t. which is odd. He’s usually always the first at every meeting. Mor’s already escorted them to the conference room with the opposition, and I take some much-needed time to review the case before I have to sit down next to Tamlin and pretend I prepped. Or that my underwear isn’t currently soaked. Rhys had decided he liked my suit getting all sweaty and rumpled. Had decided, as he shoved me against a wall, that I shouldn’t even take my underwear off as he shoved them aside and then shoved into me. Not that I didn’t love every sinful second of it.

Mor buzzes me, telling me Tamlin’s finally arrived. I go to the lobby to meet him. We haven’t even spoken since the night at the bar. When we have to communicate, he does it through Sarah, his secretary. I know the second I look at him that broaching anything personal today will get me shut down. He’s cool, professional. Doesn’t lean over to kiss my cheek. Doesn’t look at me more than necessary, either.

I don’t _look_ any messier than usual. My slacks are soft and loosely form-fitting, the kind that never wrinkle, and my loose blazer is made out of purple velvet. So I look presentable. Only, I _smell_ like I just rolled in sweaty man musk. It was so potent when I came in, Mor commented on it. And bathroom spray only did so much.

The professional distance I get changes to stiff awkwardness the second I get close enough for him to smell me. And he’ll have to sit next to me for the next hour and a half or so. Suddenly Rhys’s possessive, desirous charm doesn’t feel so good. It sits ugly in my stomach, making me feel like I’d purposefully hurt Tamlin.

“Our clients are in the conference room.” I tell him, voice soft. “Do we need to put together a game plan before we start?” We worked well together, usually able to flush out a plan easily. Usually our mode of attack was for me to hit them hot and dirty, digging out the heartstrings or the threats while Tamlin backed it up with claims. In our mock trails in college, we were unstoppable. But we needed to coordinate. Realize where to hit and how.

“No.” He pauses. Still won’t look at me. “Unless you’re not prepared again.”

I arch an eyebrow. Wow. It took me fucking another dude openly for him to get snappy. Good to know. I shrugged. “Give me a minute to grab coffee, I’m ready.”

* * *

They leave, and I speak without thinking. I want his opinion, and it just slips out. “I have a fight contract I’m having trouble with, can you look at it with me?” And wow—yeah. Smooth. I sudden feel like a complete ass.

It takes him a minute to register what I’m asking. He’s halfway through agreeing when the connections hit. He stops. Looks at his stuff, then softly agrees. He follows me to my office, where I have the contract and some notes. He doesn’t leave my doorway.

“Is he why we stopped spending time together, Feyre? Or was it me?” His voice is soft. His eyes stare only at the papers in his hands.

And wow. That’s a question. I feel like I’ve hurt him so much lately, so I hesitate. I try to form my words to give him the truth in the politest way possible, because he deserved it. I had to let him know that I broke up with him because I was bored. That was on me, and maybe a bit of him, since he never once tried to fight me on my distance. And a little bit about Rhys, too, because he showed up at the right time with the right attitude and showed me what it’s like to have a living, thriving relationship. Not seeing him anymore was about both of them. About the messy reality of me, my needs, my life.

The pause is maybe a second or two long. And it comes out of left field. He leans over to kiss me on the lips while my mouth is parted—I have a bad habit of licking my back molars when I’m thinking too hard.

It’s soft. Quick. His tongue enters my mouth and licks the inside of my upper teeth, the way he knows I like. He tastes like coffee. And fuck me, it feels good. Like putting on old, familiar shoes to run in.

I back away, startled. Not only because he kissed me but because he’s grinning like the Cheshire cat. And I’ve never seen him do that before.

Tamlin starts to walk out, contract in hand. “I’ll be here, Feyre, when you change your mind.”

* * *

After work, I unwind with a bath. The heat softens my muscles. Relaxes me so I can think critically on what happened.

Tamlin’s opinion matters to me. My relationship with him _matters_ to me. I know I can never, ever go back to dating him, but the second I realize I was no longer obligated to avoid sex with him—things went back to the way they were before. And I should distance myself from him, because he hasn’t gotten over me. That’s all concrete. Fact.

But the fact that he thinks Rhys and I aren’t meant to last sends nervous worry into my belly. I’ve been trying really hard not to think about that. We’re different, sure, but we click. We work. But so did Tamlin and I. What if I got tired of Rhys? I couldn’t see getting bored in the future, but if we kept up the way we we’re, we’d move in together. Get truly serious. And love would grow, then shatter. And hurt the both of us deeply. My inability to stay with a person, to numb them out, isn’t rational. It isn’t defined by set parameters. It just happens. And what if it happened with Rhys?

The idea of hurting that way makes me want to run. To call him up, tell him were over and done, and go back to my life of date-hopping. Not back to Tamlin, but into the arms of strangers who I’ll fuck and dump before the feelings start to set in.

Only, I hate the idea of doing that. It hurts to even feel the desire to run. Which means I’m fucked already. Because there’s something about Rhys Night that’s wormed its way into my life, my heart, and my body so deeply and irrevocably that I can’t just… walk away. And I know that won’t disappear. Even if I do start to ice him out, like I had Tamlin, and I start to get bored. Resentment will take the place of budding love—

Shit. I’m falling in love with Rhys.

I splash water all over the place, jumpy because my phone is ringing. I try to dry my hands enough to put it on speaker phone. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Think of the devil, and he’s there. I curse silently, realizing that I hadn’t even tackled the idea of telling Rhys about the kiss. I should, shouldn’t I? Only, it was nothing and meant nothing and will never happen again. “How was your day?”

I tell him the truth. “My time with you was the best part of it.”

“It was my favorite part, too.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “Where are you? You sound like you’re in a tunnel or something.”

“I’m taking a bath.”

His voice get’s gruff. “You naked right now?”

“No, I bathe in my suite. I figure it saves more water.”

“Cute. Are your nipples hard?”

Well, now that he’s asked, yeah. I look down at them. The water line cuts across the areola, and it’s a pleasing sight, my own tanned breasts floating in the bath-bombed water. “Yeah.”

“Feel one. Run your finger over the top of it for me.” And damn, does he have a voice for phone sex. It’s all gravelly. Demanding.

I close my eyes and lean back, shifting my weight so my breasts rise fully out of the water and pebble in cold air. My finger tips are hot against the nub, and I sigh into the feeling. My nipples are directly connected to my clit. I’ve always known that. But it wasn’t until Rhys that I realized my breasts are so sensitive that if you played with them long enough—and weren’t gentle about it—it took the barest pressure between my legs to send me off into orgasmic bliss.

I can hear Rhys’s even breathing over the phone. “Pinch it. Hard.”

I grab the other nipple between finger and thumb and squeeze, like he did. A wave of electricity zaps down. The water sloshes as my legs jump, squeezing together. “It feels good, doesn’t it, Darling?”

“Yeah.” I get this feeling, like he’s in the bathroom with me, watching me. It makes me arch, makes me splay my legs. Put on a show for the idea of him in my head.

“Take your other hand and touch your clit. I know it’s already swollen for me, baby. Circle yourself, open up the hood, and tap extra firm for me. Like it’s my hand. Like it’s my tongue on your sexy pussy.” I do as he says, tapping extra firm on my exposed clit with my middle finger, as my index holds back the hood. It’s a shock to the system every time. A feeling that’s too much, until it’s over and I want more. I tap again. And again.

“Fuck, are you hard?” I ask, curling in on myself, water sloshing as I sink deeper, stomach muscles twitching because I’m poking a raw nerve ending.

“Hard as stone, baby. I want to be inside you so bad. Deep in. I need to fill you up.” I nearly slip below the water line as my ass slips in the slippery tub, but I can’t seem to care because my entire body is shaking to the pulse of my middle finger tapping away. “Is that what you want? You want my hard cock inside of you, don’t you?”

“Yes.” It’s a short, harsh burst of a word. I imagine him watching me writhe, curling up.

“Take two finger and slip them into that wet pussy. Inside the chain, so every time you plunge in, you feel the piercings pull.” I do, still working my clit. “I need to be inside of you.” I hiss as the chain pulls, and I try to get the right rhythm of tugging and entering and tapping without slipping deep into the water. “That’s it, Baby. In and out. Harder.” His voice is strained. And I know he’s working himself, on his end. I picture him, shoulder wide, muscular legs out and tense as he fists his cock. His beautiful violet eyes staring intently at me.

“ _Fuck_ , Rhys.” The unmistakable pulse and rise of my own orgasm is taking hold.

“Come for me, Darling.” It’s a command. And I don’t know if it’s the arrogance or the fact that he _knows_ I’m so close, but I follow that command with a desperate chant of his name. I pump myself faster, tap myself harder, and ride out my orgasm, even as my head finally slips under. My body is still twitching and thrumming to the beat I set as I gasp up for air.

He’s quiet on his end. I look at my phone on the stool. “Did you finish?”

“Fuck, yeah.” He sounds blissed out, soft. “Do you want to come over, or should I go over there?”

“If your fast enough, I might still be in the tub.” I tease.

He hangs up. And I pull the plug and refill the tub with hot water, so it’s nice when he gets here.

* * *

The seats are ringside, or, technically, cage-side since there is no actual ring. The seats Rhys gave me are as close as we can get. I’m closer to the ring than I’ve ever been before, it seems… off that I’m here, looking at cage. There’s a strong sense of déjà vu.

Elle’s arrival helps dispel that. She comes with her husband. She also introduced Azriel, the surly teenager who hangs around Rhys’s gym. The one they’re trying to help, despite the bad family life.

He still burns bright red the second he looks at me. And can’t seem to speak more then three words without clamping down hard. I smile at him, though, and point to his shirt. It’s a muscle shirt, showing his skinny, defined arms, and has a picture of Rhys on it. “Love the shirt.”

He nods. Looks at me. Blushes. Nods again.

“Did you make it?” Side eye. A dip of the chin. A nod. “Can I have one too?” I smile at him, and he sort of seizes up for a second. Shakes his head erratically. “A large, please. I’ll pay you twenty when I get it.” It would be a nice surprise. I could wear it, and only it, as I lay in bed waiting for him. I’m pretty sure Rhys would go ballistic.

Elle draws me in then. “You nervous?”

“God, am I that obvious?” I shove my hair up onto my head, to cool down my neck and back.

“Well, it’s either that or you really have to pee.” Elle grins, and I realize that I need to take this woman out for drinks with me and Mor sometime.

“Fighting is…” I look to the cage. Away.

“Don’t worry.” Joe scoffs, “Rhys can take this clown with his hands tied behind his back.”

“Two rounds.” Azriel says. He realizes I look at him when he speaks and sort of puffs up his chest, despite the blush reawakening.

“One. Tops.” Joe scoffs. And between everyone, the night gets a little easier to bare.

I turn as the lights dim. See bikini clad women walking around with advertising signs as the commentators speak their opinions on the fight over the loud screen. I wonder what it would be like, to actually take Sal up on his offer and be a Ring girl. What Rhys would do, if he saw me half dressed, waving signs? The idea of it takes my mind off the actual fight, until the announcer starts speaking.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, in the red corner, standing six-foot-four-inches tall, weighing in at two hundred and thirty pounds, he is the former heavyweight champion, he needs no introduction to the ladies… I give you Rhys Laaaaaaadddddy Killllllllller Night!” The crowd goes crazy and I stomp my feet and holler, but I’m not nearly half as crazy as Azriel, who jumps up and down like a Wildman, screaming so loud I can see the veins popping on the sides of his neck. I catch Elle’s eye, and we both grin.

Rhys’s opponent is introduced and receives maybe half the cheers, plus a boo from the crowd. Poor guy. The announcer rattles off rules, statistics, disciplines. The crowd is alive, and my body is filling with energy.

They get into the cage. Rhys is wearing shorts. They're tight enough not to be baggy, but spandex shorts are peaking out from underneath. Form knuckle to wrists, his hands are wrapped up tight. I watch him move his head from right to left. Shake out his arms, then each leg. People are going _insane_ as the cage closes.

The first round is five minutes long, and I hate every hit, kick, and twisted limb that Rhys gets. But it’s not the lopsided fight Joe expected it to be. Rhys holds his own, but he obviously gets hit more than he delivers. The break is short, and the entire thing is spent with Cas yelling at Rhys through the fence that circles the cage. They go back at it. And Rhys takes every punch and kick in stride, before grappling the guy down to the ground. The guy looks exposed, but Rhys doesn’t take the shot.

The round ends. I turn to Elle. “He’s holding back.”

Her eyes are tight, and she nods. Next to her, Joe is leaning over his lap, glaring at Rhys in the cage.

The brake ends the next round starts. A few seconds in, the guy snaps at Rhys with a kick that looks like it could break ribs, and Rhys takes it in stride. But something changes. His body tenses. I see the look on his face before he lunges—and it’s pissed. He takes the guy down in a convoluted tangle of limbs, so fast I can’t really down how he’s doing it, only that if the guy moves off the mat an inch, his arm will snap off from the pressure of his own body. Rhys twist that arm. Adds pressure. And the guys hand is slapping the mat until Rhys released his hold.

The crowd roars. A few women in the crowd raise a banner with Rhys’s name on it. But it doesn’t feel like a victory. And no one in our section—not even Azriel—is cheering for him.

A few more rounds go. Rhys is fast to take the guy to the mat and win there, but he never once throws a punch or a kick.

The announcer holds Rhys’s arm up. He’s declared the winner. I see, then, that Rhys himself isn’t cheering either. His face is blank, a black void of emotion that sends fear, true fear, rippling down my stomach. He’s shutting down. Receding into his memories.

* * *

Azriel does a blow by blow of the match, reenacting all the violence as we head backstage. Lilly and Joe had decided to go outside to smoke and wait for us.

We pass backstage security because of the tags Rhys gave us. We follow directions to, go down a flight of stairs, through several halls, and then through a massive collection of fighters, trainers, advertisers, managers, scantily clad women, and promoters. There are a few groupy-type women among the Ring Girls. But most of my attention is caught up in Azriel, who recognizes all the fighters and recites statistics eagerly, telling me about “epic takedowns” and techniques. His enthusiasm is as daunting as it is adorable.

Rhys is in room 153, and the door is ajar, letting out the loud yelling inside. It’s Cas, and he’s screaming like a madman. “I thought we were past this shit! You told me you were ready! You’re not fucking ready. I got your body ready, only that thick fucking skull of yours—”

I push the door open. Turn scathing, furious anger on Cas, who stops, then jerks back as he sees me. “Get the fuck out.” I tell him. I barely look at Rhys, whose sitting on a bench, his head held between his hands. He doesn’t look up at me, and I don’t really care at the moment. He’s lost in himself, and he doesn’t need an audience or a scolding to get him out of wherever he’s gone. I turn to Azriel, “And you, go look at the other fight. Don’t come back till it’s done.” He pauses, looking at me. “Now.”

They all shuffle outside, and Cas gives me a look before I slam the door in his face. I’ll have to apologize later—but only when my anger at him has cooled down.

I turn to Rhys. He hasn’t moved. Hardly looks like he’s breathing. I step in front of him, crouch between his sweaty knees, and grab his still taped up wrists. He won’t let me draw his hands away, so I stand and I just hug him, hands and all, and shove his head into my chest. I rub the back of his head, petting his sweaty hair, trying to soothe him. I keep doing it, until he notices my touch. Until his shoulders untense, and his hands move to wrap around me. He shoves me closer, shoves his face deeper between my breasts. My shirt starts to get wet, and then floodgates break. He squeezes me harder and cries his heart out.

I ride it out with him, till he settles. And I kiss the top of his head.

I have words I need to say. Words I don’t know if he’ll want to hear.

“Sorrow. Shame. Self-loathing.” I think to my nightmares. To the echo of old memories playing in repeat on my head. “The moment comes back to haunt you when you least expect it. When you’ve told yourself your strong enough to get over it, but somewhere, deep inside yourself, you know you’ll _never_ get over it. And you’ll always go back to square one, and you have to heal over that wound again. You killed a man.” He shoves me away so violently I fall on my ass.

I look up at him. He’s gone cold, distant. He doesn’t really see me. “Get out.”

I stand. One more time. I have to try one more time. “There’s no way to change it—”

“ _Go home_ , Feyre.” And there is no denying the command.

Get pushed too much, and you break. Words help, sometimes. Even if you don’t want to hear them. But time is the only thing that scabs a reopening wound.

I turn and I leave.

* * *

Two days of not hearing a thing, of being ignored, I decide to it’s time to push. I go over to Rhys’s gym during my lunchbreak. Sal tells me he hasn’t seen Rhys all day, and worry hitches into my chest as I ask if Cas is in. The confirmation is barley out of Sal’s mouth before I’m flying into the gym, looking for the old bastard.

As I hurry, a guy with a thick neck and almost as many tattoos as Graysen turns his head and leers at me. Leering is fine. Leering isn’t touching. “That’s Rhys’s girl, Frankie.” Cas says, stepping between us. “He catches you looking at her like that, you’re going to be looking for a new gym.”

I grab the old man. “Have you seen him?”

“Put him to bed this morning.” He looks at me, then at Frankie. “Disappear.”

Without a complaint, the thick necked man goes away. “Put him to bed?” I ask, not looking away from Cas.

His gaze is careful. Sizing me up. “He’s… got issues, you know that right, Feyre?” I nod. No fucking duh. “Well, I found him trying to exhaust himself. Hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. Just kept hitting the gym, training too hard. Broke a few of his damn fingers on the heavyweight.” He sighs as my heart squeezes. “They’ll heal, Feyre. What’s in his head, though…” He shakes his head.

“How’d you get him to sleep? Drugs?” Cas nods, looking like he’s regretting it. But it’s the best thing for Rhys right now. The wakeup, though, will be harsh. Being put back into reality is always harsh. “Okay, I need the key to the elevator.”

I head upstairs. I find him lying diagonally across his bed, face first. He’s wearing the same trunks and spandex from the fight. His body reeks of old sweat and BO. I watch his back rise and fall. Count the crazy purpling bruises that dance across his face, his ribs, his swollen and cut knuckles.

I manhandle him, wishing I was the strong one and could do it the way he did. He flops around, stupid heavy, as I try to take off his damn shorts. Eventually, I succeed. With a wet washcloth, soap, and a dry towel, I sponge bathe him, taking special care with his armpits. Then try to roll him around so I can do the same to his front.

When he’s clean, I put deodorant on him. Take some Neosporin and cover the cuts. He has some vinegar in the cabinet above his microwave and so I wet his toothbrush in it to gently brush circles in the bruising. To help them heal.

In the end, it’s all I can do. Just make him feel like the outside isn’t as shitty and falling apart as the inside.

He’ll be out for a while. Exhaustion and drugs do that to a person. I think about cleaning his place, but it’s already cleaner than my standards. I think about cooking, but I’m a terrible cook. So instead, I call Mor. She sighs when I ask her to cancel the rest of my day, telling me that she’s already done it. There’s a heavy silence between the two of us. And she doesn’t have to say it. She’s been telling me for the past two days, slipping it into every fucking conversation we have. She wants me to tell Rhys about my past.

I thank her quickly and hang up. And the demons come to haunt me. I want to drink. Want to fuck, masturbate, whatever. I want to feel good. But that also feels wrong. So I take a page out of Rhys’s book, and put on a sports bra I’d left behind weeks ago, and a pair of his shorts. I go down into the gym with my headphones blaring and, ignoring all the eyes on me, tackle the treadmill till I’m seeing stars.

* * *

When he wakes up sixteen hours later, I realize I made a huge mistake.

His pain is opening up my pain.

I had it all planned out. I’d be on the couch when he woke. Watching TV. I’d be all casual like. No demands. No questions. No feelings. Just normal routine. Get him comfortable. Make him feel like he has someone.

But workouts exhaust me and the coffee only makes it worse. It’s been too long since I really slept. I fall asleep on the couch to the TV. And like the past two nights, I wake up with bad memories ringing in my head and the surety that someone was coming after me. Hearing something crash in the other room only confirms my suspicions. He’s coming. I have to hide—

A roar fills the space, anguished and painful.

I’m off the couch before I can think. I run into his room, flipping on the lights to see him trying to kick his dresser apart. He has it on the floor—that was the crash—and he stills as he sees me. His eyes open wide. “Feyre—”

“Don’t hurt yourself anymore. Please.” I’m shaking. Our nightmares are crashing into each other. A gunshot pops and echoes in my ears. An echo of an echo of an echo…

He stills. Glares at me. “You clean me up?”

I nod. He only stands there. And my mind is racing with all the things I know I need to do to fix this horror inside me. “Grief counselors. Therapy—”

He thinks I’m telling him what he needs. Though he does need it, too. His bitter laugh makes me flinch. “You can’t fix me, Darling. I’m not some charity case for you to pick up and fix.” He spits the words with venom. I try to tell myself that he’s not angry at me, that it’s not me—but that’s not what I feel. And I think of all the cruel words. Of a man yelling. Of a fist flying and punching. Of a woman begging for him to stop.

I watch his hands balls up at his sides. “You’re better off with someone more like you.”

More like… me? But Rhys _is_ like me. Why—

Ah. Not me. Like lawyer-me. The new, trying-to-put-myself-together me, who kicks ass and wears suits and doesn’t break. “More like me?” What a fucking joke. “You mean Tamlin? That what your saying? I deserve to be with someone like Tamlin?” Bored. Suffocated. Avoiding. Lonely. Safe.

A fury burst in Rhys’s eyes. He turns and slams his already broken hands into the wall. If he feels the pain, he doesn’t show it. But I do. A thousand punches. A thousand kicks. A thousand different ways to beg the hurt to stop. It all echoes, like a gunshot. 

“You want Tamlin, Feyre?” He asks, seething.

“I want you.” I’m crying. I can’t stop myself from crying. But I can’t look at him, either. “I want to help you.” I want to be helped. I want the pain to go away.

“You can’t help me, Feyre!” I flinch back. I’ve never heard him yell. “I’m fucking broken. I killed a man. With my own hands, I took another person’s fucking life. Only a monster does that! A monster that will rot in hell. It’s where I fucking belong!”

No-no no no nononono.

“It was an accident.” My voice is so weak. I used to say those words all the time. My therapist would make me say it over and over, to make it sink it. The only thing it accomplished, though, was making the words useless. A jumble of familiar sound without meaning.

“It was my hand that dealt him what killed him. That’s not an accident, that’s fucking murder. And murderers are unredeemable.”

I finally look up at him. “You really think there’s no forgiveness?” I’ve asked everyone who knew what happened that question. Elain says nothing but she holds me, Mom says ‘everyone deserves to be forgiven’, Mor tells me I’m stupid for asking. My sister, who I haven’t spoken to since I was eighteen, never says a thing. But what do they know? They never killed a man. The therapists hadn’t, either. But Feyre has. And his opinion matters. His knowledge echoes my knowledge.

“Forgiveness for who, Feyre?” He spits out his words. Looks ready to punch again. “The only person that can grant me absolution is dead.”

It’s the truest thing I’ve ever heard.

* * *

I don’t remember coming home. Don’t remember leaving Rhys’s gym. I just find myself collapsing on the floor. Find myself banging my head against the wood. Over and over and over—

Fuck. Fuck!

My murder wasn’t an accident.

I cry myself to sleep.

* * *

“You stupid whore! I told you not to go running your sister’s house again.” My father grabs a fistful of my mother’s hair and yanks with all his might, sending her frail body across the room. The pot on the stove makes a loud clank as she falls back, and when she slides to the ground, it falls on top of her head. Heated up soup spills over her face, steaming, covering the black and blue bruises from last time better than the makeup ever could.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you, you worthless cunt? I’ll always find you. When are you going to learn your fucking lesson?” He takes two strides towards my mother and she folds her body into a ball to protect herself. It never works. He rears his leg and kicks her side. Her body flys into the ground. She huddles into a ball. She makes the mistake of covering her head, not her stomach.

He kicks some more. Lifts her off the ground. It’s so easy for him to do it. She’s tiny, malnourished, nothing but skin and bones, but he’s strong. Tall and muscled.

He lifts her by her neck, and her feet kick a little in the air. He’s all rage. All hatred.

Nesta pushes Elain back against the wall when Elain tries to take a peek. It's her job to keep us safe. Mom said so.

Mom’s feet sway in the air a little more. Her face is getting a weird shade of pink, but it’s pale, bloodless. Nesta pushes us back against the wall as Mom makes loud, wheezing noises. And Nesta screams “stop hurting her!”

His attention comes back to us. Stilling holding Mom up by the neck, he sees where we're huddled aginst the wall. I tense as his murderous eyes fall on us. 

I’m so busy tensing, waiting for him to come at us, that I miss Nesta surging forward. She comes rushing forward, and he swats her away from his side. She’s even smaller than Mom. She flies through the air and crashes against the kitchen table. Her head smacks against the fridge in a sickening crunch.

Everything in me goes very still. He hurt Nesta.

Mom’s on the floor. When he hit Nesta, he dropped her. Dad turns to her again, as she chokes on air and goes crawling to Leila. I heard his words, hear him calling her a stupid cunt. Reminding her what he said he would do if she tried to leave him again. But it doesn’t matter.

I grab Elain. I push her out of the room like I should have done the second Dad punched Mom. 

I know about guns. The internet taught me how to load it. Make sure the safety’s off. That it’s cocked. I pass Elain, as she stands where I dropped her. Her eyes are huge. She’s crying. I stop in front of her, and I tell her a lie. That it’s going to be okay. Then I tell her a truth. That I’m going to protect her.

When I get into the kitchen, Dad is kicking mom on the ground. He’ll really kill her this time. His fists hammer down onto her, over and over and over.

A shotgun’s blast is big. I know that. I aim high. I’m slammed backwards by the kick. And all I can hear is an echo and a high-pitched ringing in my ears. It makes things distant. Easier.

I look to see Dad’s brains all over the fridge and counter. See Mom gasping on the floor, looking at me like I’m the most horrible thing she’s ever seen in her life. I put down the gun. Walk to Nesta and feel her even breathing. She’s covered in blood, too, so I pick her up. I walk her out of the room so I can wash the blood away before she wakes.

* * *

Wounds open, and your back in square one, forced to heal them. But the more they open, the easier it is to close them again.

That’s what they say. It’s what I know, too.

In the morning, I know what I have to do. The nightmare rings in my head, everything in my body hurts, but I don’t go to my liquor cabinet. I don’t go to my phone and install Tinder. I don’t do anything about the ugly ball of self-loathing and anger riding inside of me.

Instead, I call Elain. I’m thankful that I get her voicemail as I tell her I’m going to our stepfather’s house out in the desert. She’ll understand what it means. I call Mor. Tell her to cancel all my appointments and calls for the next week. I tell her where I’m going, knowing she’ll know what it means, too. That as soon as she can, she’ll be out there to meet me and ride the storm with good conversation and better friendship.

I get up. Pack a bag, and drive.

There is something soothing about the cabin. Maybe it’s the good memories. Maybe it’s the fact that the old, creaky, falling apart thing is the furthest from my childhood that I could conceivably get. It’s a safe place for me. And there’s no service or booze within sight. I occupy my time with making the place livable again. I turn on the old generator. Flip all the water on until its clean and clear. I dust and tidy. By the time I’m done, Elain is driving up, hauling in a week’s worth of easily microwavable groceries.

Better yet, she brings the kids.

Nicky tells me eagerly that she was supposed to be in school. And Rob, in his usual flare, looks at me, then screams. Only this time, he knows I’m not on babysitting duty. There are no ‘Robbie, use a toilet, not your pants’ or ‘Robbie, stop screaming’ or ‘Robbie, that’s not a nice thing to do’ when it wasn’t babysitting time. Instead, I’m ‘Robbie, you want some sugar?’ or ‘Robbie, hey, learn this word, can you say ‘shit?’

So instead of running, he lunges at me. I bask in the kids’ craziness, in the way they light up the house and make it livable. Elain doesn’t speak. She doesn’t ask. It isn’t until their packing up in the car to leave for the night that she turns to me. “It was Rhys that did it, hu?”

I look away. Nod.

“You really do need to tell him, Feyre.” She sighs and wraps me up in a hug. “You know I fucking love you.” Just as quick, she releases me. “Reg will be here tomorrow, yeah?” She pauses before getting inside, then glares at me. “And tell your man.”

* * *

I hear knocking as I’m microwaving a bowl of soup. “What are you knocking for? Come in.” I call to Mor. The door opens. “So, am I fired yet?” She’s silent, and yeah, okay, maybe she’s not in the mood for joking around. Sometimes long drives put her in a bad temper. Her footsteps come closer. “Was the drive—”

I turn. It wasn’t Mor.

Rhys’s still bruised. There’s a splint on his right hand, and he obviously hadn’t shaved. But his eyes are calmer. His shoulders seem heavy. And it’s good to see him. To be around him. I’d missed him, these past two days.

I feel like I should be angry at him, but I’m not. I understand what he was going through. Understand what self-loathing can do to a person, at the height of it. I still hate what he said to me, though. Still have it echoing inside my head, tearing me up in two when I let it. And I don’t really know what I feel when I look at him. There’s shame, in there. For not being good enough to help him when he needed me. For reacting and then running away. And pain because he’d hurt me deeply. And concern, because he was just as hurt.

There were more pressing things to focus on, though. Kinder things. “What are you doing here?” He shouldn’t know about the cabin. I’d never once mentioned it to him.

“Mor told me the address, where I could find you.”

I nod. “Are you… better now?” I ask, frowning. I wait for the words to spark his temper. For him to react. He doesn’t.

His eyes close. He had a terrible bruise on his cheekbone, which almost touches the massive black eye that dominates his face. There’s a big cut on his forehead. None of it compares to his hands, though. To what he did to himself. “I wanted to apologize.” I watch him. He never opens his eyes. “I was out of line the other night. You were trying to help, and I was… a total asshole.”

And it doesn’t erase the pain, but it soothes it. I let myself feel the comfort of his presence, of his body being in the same room as me. Let myself really feel how much I’ve missed him. “You’re a little like my Dad, did you know that?” I ask. His eyes open. There’s confusion there. I’ve never talked about my parents to him. “My biological dad, he was big, like you. Tall. Muscular.” I grab the soup from the microwave as it beeps. Put it on the counter to cool. “When I was really, really little, he would grab my Mom the same way you grab me. Move her around so she sat on his lap. Held her head as he kissed her.” Only she’s been bruised. And crying. And terrified.

I’d never once felt those things with Rhys, though. Why?

I remember his face. The first time I ever saw him. The anguish inside of him as he realized what he’d done. How it mirrored me. That seemed to have outweighed the way he mirrored my Dad. I was never once afraid his jealousy would get the better of him. That his violence would hurt me. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that he could seriously damage me, all the time he tied me up or held me down or choked me and smacked me. I’d felt cherished, instead. Alive. Powerful.

I should be a mess right now. Any other time, and I would be. His words had been… very close to home. But I’d healed, being with him. Strengthened.

I look up at him. And I know I’m strong enough to do what I need to do.

“I—okay.” He still looks a little lost.

I wait. He waits. He takes a step forward and reaches a hand out to me. Not to grab me, but as a peace offering. If I take it, we’re making a step forward. To forgiveness. Only, we’ll just being forgiving each other for our harsh words, our overstepped boundaries. We won’t be forgiving ourselves for what we’ve done. And this cycle will repeat. And maybe, someday, the pain and anger and resentment inside of me will make me lash out. And I’ll break his heart as cruelly and as harshly as I can. And maybe, someday, the pain and anger and resentment inside of him will make him lash out. And he’ll actually hurt me—physically, emotionally, it won’t matter. Both might just take all the progress and healing he’s helped me make and twist it around, so I’m more than just back at square one, but have a brand-new wound to fester inside of me.

“Forgive me, Feyre-Darling. Please. Please.”

“I forgive you for what you said,” I hold up my hand, stopping him from coming towards me. “But you need to leave, Rhys.” I have no explanation to give him that will satisfy things for him. Because I’m holding back. I’m making a decision for the both of us.

So I tell him a truth and twist it into a lie. “Tamlin kissed me the other day. I let him.”

He stiffens. And I can see the words playing in his head. About how I should be with someone more like me. How I had mocked him, because he thought I was like Tamlin. It’s funny, because he’s more like me than anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life.

“That’s that, then, hu?” Pain. Fury. Jealousy. Heartbreak. It all flashed across his suddenly tight body. But he didn’t reach out to hurt me.

Better now than later. I look away. And I don’t look up as I hear his car pulling out of the gravel driveway.

* * *

Mor’s there in the morning, asleep on the couch. She winces when I sit on her legs to wake her up. “Alright, alright.” She sighs heavily. “I’m not sorry I did it. He looked so sad, Feyre. I thought he could help.” She peaks at me from under her long-fingered hand. “I thought you’d finally talk to him, too.”

I ignore her pointed dig. I’m mad at her right now. “Butt out.”

“Oh, no. You don’t get to do it to me, too. We’ve been over this. There is no butting out for me. You save me? I save you.”

I shake my head. “We’re both too broken.” I tell her what happened when he came to the house. And her lips clamp up tight. She just stares at me for a long, long time. And when I start crying, she huddles me into her side. “I did the right, thing, right?”

“Maybe you did. But you went about it all wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also-I just realized. Why the HELL didn't I make Feyre the tattoo artist? Silly me. I'll rewrite it later when I've got the time, so it's better.


	3. Part Three

The week passes in a blur. And the next one after that. And the next. I work twelve hours a day, seven days a week to catch up on the work I’ve missed, and then to just burry myself in it all. I play with the kids when I’m not at work. I go out with Mor and Clara. I play along with the tempo of my life, even though it feels like something in me is missing.

I hate going home. I tell myself it’s better when I bring someone home with me. Women only. Women who look interested and don’t have violet eyes or a devilish smile, tattoos or muscles. None of them hold me gently. None of them make me feel vulnerable and safe. The conversations are always stilted and off kilter, like were both trying to find our feet. But their tongues are talented and their hands roam in all the right ways.

Life is simple without Rhys Night in it. Boring. Dull. Safe. Predictable. I have a good job. A great family. I’m going somewhere, being something.

Something inside me just wants it all to end, though.

I go back to the support group, the one the therapist tired to get me to go to when I was younger. Different faces look at me. Each one though, changes from friendly to horrified, to disgusted, as I tell my story. Just like last time. So I don’t go back.

Instead, I go to Elain. She’s not working currently, but she had the needles and ink at her place, and she has no qualms about tattooing me in her living room. We talk while she works, and she tells me about the pregnancy complications and the last few weeks being bedridden while I tell her what happened with Rhys.

The tattoo goes on my shoulders. Elain’s idea, since she thinks that’s where I carry the weight. Maybe because, to her, that night just carries guilt, grief, and horror. She’s wiping away the blood and excess ink when she asks me. “You believe this?”

“I do. With all my heart.” She sighs and Goes back to finish what she started, and the buzzing pain of the tattoo is different. As she puts goo on my shoulder, then plastic wrap—she shows me a mirror so I can see it. On my right shoulder are the words: _the only person who can grant me absolution is dead_. Right across the top in even, clean, unbeautiful lettering.

But there’s something else, there, too. A tinier, more beautiful lettering slanted below the words, going from the ball of my right shoulder to my spine: _but I love you anyway._

“My own truth.” She explains, not looking at me as she cleans up the living room,

\---------------------------------------------------------

I’m late with my meeting with Tamlin. We’re meeting a client we share at a restaurant. And it’s in the same place we used to have our weekly dates. I don’t even need to look up from my phone to look for him. Because he’s sitting at the same table as always. In the same seat.

I look up from my phone, finishing off an email. The table has another couple in it, and they look up at me, a little confused.

Behind me, Tamlin laughs. He’s sitting at the counter of the bar, grinning at me with a vodka soda in hand. “Hey,” the seat next to him is empty. The other one has a woman in it, who’se clearly on a date with her girlfriend. “Where’s Mr. Munley? Don’t tell me we’ve finally met someone later than me.” I tease, taking off my jacket and throwing it on the seat next to him.

Tamlin stands. Kisses my cheek. “He’s not coming till seven.”

“What?” I look at my phone. It’s six-twenty. I thought the appointment was at six. “Don’t tell me you give me the wrong time so I show up early.” It’s something he used to do for me during our exams, back in law school. We both smile at the shared memory.

I sit next to him as we catch up on our client. Another referral that Tamlin sent my way. We slip back into that familiar role, picking up where we always leave off. “Sorry I didn’t get the table, by the way. I always had to reserve it, but I didn’t think this time, and it was occupied when I got here, so...”

“It’s okay. I hated that table. Sitting in the same place every week…”

He surprised me by laughing. “Oh, God, you too? It was awful.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. “I kept getting it because you seemed to like it, knowing where I was.” He gives me an odd look, maybe because I’m staring at him like his head just popped off. “What?”

“I… what gave you that impression of me, Tamlin?” I hated that table. Disdained what it meant, what it symbolized.

“Well, you never complained. At that table, things were more comfortable then when we went out somewhere else.” He shrugged, and I realize I have to remember all the other times we’d gone out, and where to. Different restaurants, different bars. He’d actually taken me to a lot of the years, thinking back on it.

“I think I fell in love with you at first sight.” I’m taken back by him, and he laughs at my startled expression. “Don’t worry, it was love at first sight, so it was more adoration than anything. We were in law school, and I had heard of you. You had a reputation of being a heartbreaker.” His smile is sad. “I made this game plan. Studied up on every guy you dated so I could figure out where they went wrong.”

“Really?”

“It makes me sound like a stalker, doesn’t it? But no. I wanted to keep you. Be in your life. It was the impossible challenge. Every time I tried to make you happy, you pushed me further and further away. So I found this happy balance, a place that all the other guys failed to see. I had to make you happy enough that you wanted to stay, but keep you bored enough that you didn’t want to sabotage us.” I feel like I’m being punched in the gut. Like he’s taking a fork, digging it into my brain, and parting the delicate tissue to take out a chunk. “It was worked out pretty well, actually. Sure, when the times were bad, they were bad. But when they’re good?” He lifted up an eyebrow. “Being with you made me feel… I don’t know how to describe it, Feyre. You have a way of making a person fly in the clouds. Feel like the most important person in the world. Even though I didn’t get to have all of you, I still felt privileged. Because I got to have some of you. And it was enough.” He looks down. “For a time. I realize now that we’re not so entangled that it wasn’t that good for me. I’m—I’m sorry for what I did in the office. For kissing you. It was just such a surprise to hear that you’d stayed with Rhys for so long, and I was jealous.”

Hearing his side of things was… off putting. I’d always thought of myself as one way. I saw myself as the girl who got bored easily. The girl who was too damaged by her past to care enough. And in a lot of ways, I was truthful to myself about who I am. I am too damaged to care. But not because I can’t care.

The way Tamlin makes it sound. It’s almost as if I turn my relationships into something I despise. Ruin them before the emotions become necessary. Before I became vulnerable.

And it was true, wasn’t it? I looked at my actions. With him. With Rhys. With previous flings that never got the chance to mean anything.

I feel sick. Disgusted with myself. And lonely. So fucking lonely.

I put a hand on his knee. “I’m so sorry, Tamlin.”

“It’s okay.” His smile is soft, friendly, a little sad. “I kind of always knew it wouldn’t work out, I’m not damaged enough for you to put your guard down.” I hate that. I hate that he thinks that almost as much s I hate the words coming out of his mouth.

His gaze lifts and he stills. “I just wasn’t the one.”

Confused, I look over my shoulder and nearly jump out of my skin when I meet Rhy’s violet eyes. Elle is beside him, looking at a drink menu. Rhys is just standing there, staring. And God, do I miss him. My body aches from all the exhaustion I’d been pushing aside these past weeks.

He looks away. At Tamlin. Then at my hand on Tamlin’s knee. Without blinking, he spins and walks out of the restaurant. It takes Elle a minute to realize he’s gone—and looks totally baffled as she searches the crowd. She reaches for her phone, stepping outside, probably to call Rhys and figure out what happened.

“I take it you two aren’t seeing each other?” Tamlin asks, his voice soft.

“Yeah. I did the exact same thing to him that I do to everybody. I push.”

“He got further than all the rest, though.” Tamlin points out. “Further than me.”

He made it all the way, actually. Wormed his way deep, deep into my heart before I’d realized it. He’d dazzled me and owned me. And now…

If Tamlin minds how distracted I am for the rest of the night, he doesn’t push. Tamlin never pushes. Maybe because I’ve trained him to do it. Maybe because it’s his natural disposition. I don’t know anymore. Either way, he lets us sit in silence until our client appears and takes over most of the conversation after. Dinner passes by in a blur, and I’m on autopilot and we go through the familiar motions. Tamlin helps me put on my coat. He takes me to his car.

For the first time, I really look at it for what it is.

* * *

I’m thinking about sleeping when I hear the knock on the door. My brains too foggy on newly discovered personality traits to do much work. There’s not much else to do—so I’m relieved when I hear the firm knock. I don’t even think about what someone would be doing, pounding on the door at 2am. I just open it.

And I feel like maybe I feel asleep. Like I’m having a good dream.

Rhys is wearing the same thing he’d been wearing at restaurant, only his hair is messier. His bruises have yellowed and almost disappeared. He’s so beautiful it kind of hurts me, deep in my chest, to look at him. I want to fall into his arms. I want him to hold me. I want him to surprise me with his gentleness, with his force. To talk with me as if we’ve known each other forever.

Neither of us say a damn thing. I stare at him. He stares at me.

He moves forward. And my heart trips as I think he’s going to kiss me. But he doesn’t. He never does what I think he’s going to do. He grabs at me, strong arms guiding me up off the ground. And my feet dangle for just a moment, before I’m wrapping them around his waist.

He kicks the door shut behind me. Walks me to my bedroom where he sits me down at the edge of the bed. He stand over me, eyes still locked with mine. And I want to cry. I want to touch his jaw. Run my fingers through his hair. I want to laugh with him. I want to watch him cook. I want him inside of me.

None of this happens. I don’t do anything. Just watch him as he watches me.

Slowly, so slowly it’s awful, he leans down. Puts his hands on either side of my hips and leans in further. So he hovering over me, then holding me down onto the bed. So I can feel the heat, the solidness of him against me. I feel my eyes close so my body can truly appreciate the feeling. His chest moves against mine as we breath. And I’m small, and soft, and curvy where he’s broad and muscled and lean. He smells good, a bit like clean sweat, but mostly like his deodorant, his bodywash, his aftershave, his skin.

I feel wrecked.

I open my eyes. See that he’s still watching me.

“Your mine.” It’s the first words he says to me, and the last before his lips crash down onto me. It’s a wild kiss, with a life of its own. It’s painful, languid, sensual, possessive. The best kiss I’ve ever had. A hand moves, the weight to of the mattress shifting, as he cups the back of my neck in a tight grip. And his body falls a little harder on mine. But even a kiss as wonderful as it is, it isn’t enough. I need more.

We part panting, and he looks down at me. Watches me with all his sharp intensity. “Your mine, Feyre.” He repeats. It’s an order. A demand. And it vibrates through me, sealing something strange I hadn’t known existed. I’m crying before I realize it, but it’s not sad tears.

“Yours. I’m yours.”

A slow, breathtaking smile fills his lips, lighting up his entire face.

It becomes a frantic race to take our clothes off. His skin feels amazing against mine. And even better, he grabs me, lifts me, and throws me higher up the bed so my bare breasts bounce. My legs open for him automatically, and he crawls up to me, his gaze intent on mine. “Say it again.”

“Yours.” I breathe it onto his skin as I kiss his neck, his shoulder, his lips as I grab his face. “I’m yours.” I’m rewarded by him pushing inside of me. It’s hard, fast, deep. A little too much, maybe, despite how soaking wet I am. His mouth covers mine, absorbing my startled groan. His kiss is gentle. The counterpoint to his next punishing thrusts in.

He releases my mouth. Stills so he’s not moving in me anymore. “Again.”

“I’m yours.”

He pulls back his hips all the way. Leaves me totally for the space of a heartbeat before thrusting into me even harder than before. He stills again. And I don’t need him to ask this time. I kiss his jawline, scrape my teeth lightly over the stubble. “I’m yours.” He pulls out, moans as he thrusts into me. Stills. Waiting. “I’m yours, Rhys.”

He grabs my hands, instead of repeating the process. Holds them above my head, then easily traps them with one of his own. He pulls out almost all the way, so only the tip of his cock rests inside of me, before he leans back and admires the view. My arms up. My legs splayed wide over his thighs. I’m totally and completely vulnerable.

Rhys takes a huge breath, expanding his chest. He looks almost peaceful, for a moment. His free hand trails across my belly, before it’s lifting. I hiss as it comes down against the skin of my breast. As that pain hits me. He kneads me, afterwards. Rolls my nipple between his fingers, then pulls it hard. “Rhys, Rhys I’m yours. I’m yours.” It’s a plea, and I wiggle away. Only he doesn’t stop. Not until the pain has gone beyond pain, and I’m riding that once familiar high of tingling heat that makes the pleasure he gives my body that much sweater. And when I’m not fighting, but moaning and arching into his ministrations, does he slam back into me. Each thrust is harder and deeper than the one before it. There’s a wet, filthy smacking noise each time we join—and a furiousness to the pace we set against one another.

His hand holding mine above my head keep me from reaching out to him, like I want to. And I can’t meet his thrusts if I wrap myself around his waist and hold him with my legs. But it doesn’t matter. Because I’m possessed. Completely and totally possessed by Rhys. And it’s that feeling that sends me crashing over the edge.

I think I scream. Or maybe it’s a moan. It’s a low, deep, guttural sound that almost embarrasses me. And his body tightens in response to me. I feel the heat of him pouring into me before I’m finished riding out my own release.

* * *

I wake screaming. The blast of a shotgun slinging me back. And a body next to me—

He’s going to hurt her. He’s killed her and he’ll kill Mom—

Hands grab me. Pin me. I fight like a wild, screaming lunatic, thrashing against the bed and the body pinning me with an expert control. There’s nowhere to go, no way to fight—

“Shh, hey, shhh, I got you darling.” A gentle trail of a nose runs up and down my neck. And a hard chest is pressed against mine as limbs hold me down. “Talks to me, hey, shhh.” Rhys. It was Rhys. And I was in bed. At home.

All the fight leaves me. He notices the transition and the strangling, twisting hold he has on all my limbs loosens. I find myself flipped over, on his chest, but still pinned by the weight of his arms holding me to him. I just lay on him. Let him hold me with all his strength as I try to control my breathing. “What was that?” He asks.

“Nightmare. Have ‘em all the time.” I mumble, breathing against his chest hair. “It’s why I hate sleeping. One time, I woke up and someone was next to me. And I… I was strangling them before I realized what reality was.”

If he’s scared, if he judges, he doesn’t show it. His hands hold me tighter, then start a low, gentle glide up and down back. From shoulders down to ass. “I noticed you have a tattoo.” His kisses my right shoulder, where his words stain me. “I’m so—”

“I already forgave you. If you apologize, I’m going to knee you in the balls.”

His body vibrates under me as he chuckles. “Alright then, how about this?” His lips kiss my ear, tongue trailing over the shell. “I want you.” He’s gentle with his hands. With his voice. So different from the man last night staking his claim. He gives me gentle kisses up and down my neck. Licks my tattooed shoulder.

“You have me.” I sigh. His teeth bite at my earlobe, and my sigh turns into a groan.

“Do I? Really?” Something in his voice makes me lean up, so I can look at him. He watches me. His hair is a wild thing on his head, and his eyes are soft. He knows I’m holding back. He knows there’s…something. And how can he not? He’s not a dumb man. He’s seen how I keep myself awake at night. He’s heard of Max’s description of our childhood, of the ‘gilded cage’. The fact that I donate and do community service at the women’s shelter. Now he’s seen my nightmares firsthand. While the tattoo is glaring, it might not be enough to piece it all together. It’s a big leap from ‘damaged girl’ to ‘girl who killed her father’.

“We need to talk, darling.”

I tell him the only truth I know. “I’m scared.”

Maybe it’s enough. Maybe it’s what he’s looking for. I don’t know. He takes it, though, and kisses me gently before guiding my limbs, my body. I straddle his lap and his hands worship and love me as I worship him.

* * *

We don’t get out of bed all day. I think I missed the quiet moments, the most, the times where we were just enjoyed being with each other. And I’m happy—so fucking happy—but there’s a gnawing discontentment under the surface of it. A weight because of all the things left unsaid.

I don’t want him to look at me differently. I don’t want him to think I’m a murderous monster going to Hell.

Rhys sighs. He’s been tangling and untangling his hand from my hair for a while now, and he stills, his hand still imbedded deep, fingers entwined. “We need to talk.”

And the fear slams in. And I look up at him. “Feed me first.”

So he does. And I get another reprieve. Another moment to feel the beginnings of the end.

* * *

I sit on the counter in his shirt as he cooks naked. We eat and wordlessly clear our plates away. And the routine is organic. Comforting. Maybe because he stops cleaning halfway through so he can pull my hair away from my neck and nibble and lick it, so his big hand can rest on my chest, just above the swell of my breasts, and hold me to his back.

And then he ruins it. “No more stalling. We have to talk.”

I’ve never hated my father more than I do in that moment, and I’ve spent a lot of time and effort hating him before and after his death. But Rhys’s right. We can’t stall forever, and I have to let it go. Let him go, maybe. Get ready to start at square one again. And heal the new wound Rhys’s about to open up inside of me.

I lead Rhys to the couch. He pulls me ontop of him, so I straddle his lap. So were face to face, chest to chest. I can’t have the conversation like this, though, so I wriggle away—only Rhys holds me down. And there’s no way to fight his grip. “I need to move—”

“I know what you need.” He says it so simply, so easily. I settle in his lap. Maybe he’s right.

I close my eyes. It makes my awareness of his body stronger, of the softness of him between my legs, resting against my damp-but-not-wet heat. Weirdly, it’s reassuring.

“My father was abusive.” It’s a good place to start. When his hands tighten on my hips, I shake my head. “Not me. Or my sisters. Just my Mother. And Nesta….” I open my eyes. Look down at his stomach. The way it moved as he breathed. Despite all the muscles, the six pack, the ribbons on his ribs, his skin still folds when he sits. A gentle little line just above his belly button. “She was always the strongest of us. The one who tried to stop it.” He’s quiet. Waiting. “It got bad enough that my Mom tried leaving him. Only he always found her. And he always hurt her worse. One night, he beat her so bad she didn’t get out of bed for weeks. He was a doctor, a surgeon, so he mended her internal bleeding at home. But that time, he’d beat her face, instead of her body. Her eyes were so swollen that she’d flinch every time we snuck into the room to comfort her or encourage her to eat. Because she couldn’t tell if it was us or him.

“When she was able to see, she drove us to our Aunt’s. Her sister. I remember it really vividly. She was got up and started to make soup. Campbell’s tomato soup. And he had to leave the house to get milk for us. The second he left the drive, she had us in her car. Just turned off the stove. Didn’t ask us to put on shoes, or coats. But he found us. My aunt, she wanted to call the cops, but Mom refused to press charges. Cops had been called on her over and over and over and over—”

I cut myself off. “She never once pressed charges. My Aunt couldn’t understand it, and I think she’d given up. When he came to pick us up, the only thing she asked for was to leave us with her. But Dad said no. So we went back home.”

I know the next part so vividly, it plays over in my mind in a loop. I don’t know how long we sit there in silence. Long enough for Rhys’s cracking voice to speak up. “You don’t have to, Darling. Just let me hold you. Forget the past.” His voice is gentle. Kind. His fingers trail over the tattoo, though.

“Why do you think I put it on me?” I ask, closing my eyes again.

“I… don’t really know. When I saw it, and the I love you anyway… I kind of thought…”

“Elain put it on me. She said it was his message to me. What was in his heart.” I open my eyes, and there’s understand, maybe a bit of sadness, in his eyes. He’d hoped I’d put his words on my skin, but marked him as loved, anyway. And I do love him. God, I love him. But he needs to know what the tattoo means to me.

He needs to know me. Now that the story is half finished, I’m know I’ll never be able to love him the way I need to if I don’t tell him all of it.

“He almost killed her that night.” He looks up at me. Empathic anguish fills his eyes. “He lifted her up by her throat and crushed her windpipe. And Nesta…” I shudder. “She’d had enough. She rushed forward to beg him to stop. He slapped her, and she was so little. She flew into the table. And I thought—I thought he’d killed her. Mom, she’d fallen. She crawled over to her. And he hit her over and-”

“Darling, come here.” He pulls me to his chest, but I fight him, and he stops trying.

I look into his eyes. I try to memorize the way he’s looking at me. The love I know is there between us. Then I decide to let it go. “I know what you feel like, in a sense.” I put my fingers tip his lips, stopping his confused question. “I snapped. Something in me just snapped. And I took the shotgun from the garage and I shot his head off.”

Rhys’s eyes widen. He stills under me.

I grab my shoulder. Where the tattoo is.

“Your words that night—the reason I tattooed them is because I’d never agreed with something so completely in my entire life. It’s like, that night, you pulled every emotion I’d ever had, and gave it words.”

A soft sound breaks out of his mouth, but I can’t look at him. I can’t see what I’ve turned into, in his eyes. It’s—

He grabs my face. And I close my eyes because there’s no way to fight his hold. His lips are so soft, so gently against mine. Just a pressing of lips. I feel myself sigh into it. “You told me I reminded you of your father. Do I scare you? Do you think I could do those things to you?”

A choked sound escapes my mouth. “No.” I explain it to him. In the best way I can, I explain the convulsion of my thoughts. How I feel cherished because he reminds me of my Dad. As if he could take away all the terror and fear and transform it into absolute trust. How my heart melts at the sight of him with children. How when I first saw him, I was captivated and heartbroken by our shared experience. His listens, not taking his hands off my face.

We still, in the silence of my words. His lips are soft against my skin. “Open your eyes, Feyre.” It’s a command. “Come on, darling, look at me.”

His purple eyes are right there. So close. The color is deep, beautiful. I love the shape of them on his face. But then I lean back. Look past the surface. And search for something that’s not there. No pity. No disgust. No hatred. There’s still love there, shining, so beautiful that I feel tears streaming down my cheeks. “I wish you’d told me earlier, but I understand why it would be hard. I do.” He brushes the tears with his thumbs, not letting go of me. “I’m so sorry I said those words to you. I didn’t—” His chest heaves against mine as he takes a deep breath in. “They were for me. But I can see how they’re also for you. But you aren’t a monster. You’re not going to Hell. I don’t think Hell would know what to do with you.”

He kissed my lips again. A gentle pressure. “Your mine.” He says, squeezing a little to emphasize the words. “And now—now I’m yours.” And his lips crash against mine, and it’s not a gentle thing. It’s demanding. It’s real. And with no barriers between us, he slips inside of me.

\----------------------------------

I realize the time. “Fuck.”

“Mmm.” He’s half asleep in bed with me, his limbs heavy across my body. “What?”

“Work. I’m late. So late.” I wiggle out of his hold, but it’s pointless. He grabbed me, spins me, then I’m just even more under his body. “Rhys—”

“I need to know something else.” He says, and I frown at him. “Are you back with pansy ass?”

“Who?” He gives me a dirty look, and I get it. He’s talking about Tamlin. “What, no.”

“He kissed you. And you two looked pretty damn cozy last night.”

I shook my head, trying to smooth his jealousy away with my hands. It was my fault it was there. He’d been okay—possessive, sure—but okay with my relationship with Tamlin. Then I had to go and shove it in his face to get him to walk away from me. And I hate that I put that on him. That I made him doubt. “He kissed me like, god, I can’t remember how long. That day you got me all covered in sweat. I let it happen because I didn’t know he was going to do it and it was over before I could push him away. It was stupid. Meant nothing. And last night, we were talking before meeting with a client, who showed up a bit after you stormed out. We’re just friends. Seriously. We were even talking about how terrible of a girlfriend I was, and that’s why my knee was on his hand. I was apologizing.”

“He’s a stupid pansy ass if he thinks you’re a bad girlfriend.” He grumbled, searching me for any duplicity. “And I see the way he looks at you. He’d take you back in a heartbeat.”

I seriously doubted that. Last night had felt like an ending between us. “But I wouldn’t take him back.” That was the important part.

“Okay. Sure.” He shrugs—and I get suspicious as he rolls off of me. “So you won’t mind if I have drinks with Anna, then?”

I still, halfway out of bed. “Anna?” Who the fuck is Anna?

“Oh, we’re just friends. We used to sleep together, but I’m not into her anymore, even though she totally wants me. She’s a nutritionist and I think having one on payroll to work with the instructors would be useful. I usually keep our business in gym, but I think we need to catch up over drinks—”

“Point taken, asshole.” I hiss, climbing onto his chest. “What do you want from me? To never work or see him again?”

“To respect my feelings.” His voice is soft and deadpan. He stares up at me. “You know exactly what that involves, so don’t pretend like you want a detailed instruction. I won’t control you or tell you who you can and can’t be friends with or how you can be friends with them.” He touches a bit of my hair, which drapes around his head. “What would you not want me to do with Anna?”

The idea with him doing anything with Anna tightens my chest up. “Is she real?”

He shrugs. “Does it matter? I only want you.”

Oh, he was good. I smack him, and he has the gal to groan, holding his bicep in one hand.

* * *

Rhys, on a spur of the moment decision, decided he wanted to get away from the city for the weekend. Pushing baby sitting duty onto Mor—who had rented 16 Candles—and packed my bags. I don’t ask where we’re going, mostly because the surprise and spontaneity is half the fun. But we’d been driving north for a long while.

I take in his profile as we drive down a narrowed one-lane. His profile is handsome, and I take in the lines of his cheek, the squareness of his jaw, the slightly crooked nature of his nose. He hasn’t shaved in a while and the stubble makes him look rugged. Or, well, more rugged.

“You’re staring.” He said, not taking his eyes off the road.

“I like what I’m looking at.”

His smile is boyish and charming and unapologetically wicked. He peeks at me from the corner of his eye, his face not turning from the road. “We’ve got another five minutes drive, babe, give me five minutes before I tear those panties off.”

I snort. “Bold of you to assume I’m wearing any.” I was, but that wasn’t the point.

He laughed with me and the next five minutes were casual as he grabbed my hand and rested it on my lap. Eventually we made it to a long driveway—or perhaps a private street, I can’t tell. I couldn’t see anything but trees and a distant light in the direction we were heading.

“Okay, okay, I give in, where are we?”

He snorted. “Cas’s lake house.”

We pull up, and the light was a porch-light. The porch itself is huge and wraps around the entire house. There lounge chairs and small tables in various places that I have to squint to make out. The car is still rolling when I jump out, eager to stretch my legs and smell clean nature-filled air.

He makes me stand on the porch as he enters the house, and I hear a familiar snick of a match before he’s coming out of the darkness with a candle on an old fashioned holder. “What’s up with that? Why can’t I see inside?”

“There’s no electricity here.” He explained easily, grabbing the luggage by my legs.

“What?” Horrified, I pointed to the porch light. That was most definitely electricity right there.

He snorted at me, “That’s a solar light, city-girl. Cas has this thing about his cabin. There’s no phone, no electricity, no cell service. And no people for miles and miles.”

“You… took me to a place with no electricity and no cell service?” My voice sound shrills.

“I have lotion, for the skin.” He offers, and winces dramatically as I slapped his stomach. “Oohh—ow, baby girl. Lay off the protein for a while, will you?”

He leads me into the house by my hand, leaving the luggage by the door as we make our way into what I think is a back room. He fumbles in the dark with easy expertise, grabbing what I think is logs before lighting a fire. The fireplace is massive, actually, and almost as soon as the logs are roaring the room’s gentle chill is starting to turn.

Rhys looks at me, and I look at him. He’s still crouched to the side of the roaring fire, the light dancing off his frame, his skin. Neither of us moves or breaks eye contact, but just stares.

Everything feels—simple. But also monumental. Like this moment was a turning point. Everything I’d done before had led to here—and whatever happens from now on will come from this place, from this quiet enjoyment and gentle lapping fire.

I’m in love with this man. And that no longer terrifies me.

He stands fluidly, the grace of his motions startling and sure. Slowly, as if his steps are heavy, he walks towards me—never once breaking eye contact. But he stops before he can reach me, before our bodies can connect. I blink very slowly, and he reaches forward to brush a bit of messy hair from my face, his touch soft and gentle and kid. And then he leans down. But instead of kissing me like I expect him to, his just shares breath with me, the air growing warmer and warmer as our eyes stayed locked on one another.

“I love you, Feyre.”

I smile up at him. “Funny, I was just about to say the same thing. I love you too.”

He kisses me then. It’s a sweet tangle of lips and tongue, our bodies finding each other to press against one another as our hands roam—and it’s needy, but also sure of itself. Familiar, but sort of nerve wracking. We slowly strip off each other’s clothes without breaking our lips from each other for more than a second, and then he’d gripping my thighs and manhandling me towards a wall.

He slips inside easily, and we rock against one another, more kissing than fucking, and it’s perfect.

* * *

I wake up terrified, my limbs twisted and held down, Rhys’s soft voice lifting me out of an echo of an echo of an echo that’s ringing in my ears. After he was sure that I was calm, he lets me go, rolling off to his side of the bed and seeming to understand my need to not be touched. For a while, I just try to center myself.

It’s irrational to expect my nightmares to have just—gone away because I had confessed to Rhys what had happened in my life. But it was still there. And I felt betrayed by my body.

He let me have that by myself. Kissing my calf gently, he got up and walked into the bathroom. I heard him pee, then wash his hands—and by the time he came out I had settled a bit more. “Let’s go the lake, yeah?”

He stopped me when I tried to put on clothes. “No one around for miles—and clothes will just get in the way.” With a wink and a hard slap to the ass, he ushered me out of the cabin and towards the back. There was a lake, shining and glossy in the morning light as we made our naked way out to the docks.

“I started coming here when I was fifteen. This was his Mom's place.” He says, staring out at the lake with me. “Cas used to bring me up to fish. Sometimes Elle—and once in a blue moon my mom would get a day off work and come up here to relax, too.” I smiled at him, turning away from the view of the lake to wrap my arms around his chest and hug him. “We had a good couple of parties up here after I won my fights.” He said, wrapping his hands up in my hair. “Cas doesn’t want to wire the place or get a generator, so we used to fill the back of a pickup truck with coolers. We bring as much booze as we could.”

He paused. And I realized maybe there wasn’t just good memories associated with this place. I squeezed him a little, resting my head on his chest. My cheek rubbed against his chest-hair.

“Cas brought me up here after I tore my gym apart. After the fight.” He didn’t need to explain which fight he was talking about. Not with his soft, sad voice. “It was ugly. But Cas took me up here and wouldn’t leave me, no matter how many times I threatened his life and pushed him around.”

There’s a long break, and I realized that it’s not a contemplative pause—but the ending of his sharing. “You haven’t been back since?”

His other hand rubs gently up my back and brushes against my shoulder. Where I was tattooed. “No.”

So we held one another, and enjoyed the morning.

* * *

There was an island in the center of the lake, maybe the size of a house, with white sand and little patches of grass and a few weeping willows. We swim out to it, and for a while just lay in the sand and watch the clouds roll by.

But I’m restless. And he’s naked. So the peace only lasts a little while.

Instead of getting up and rolling onto him, I trace my breast with one lady hand. My blunted square nails scratch the skin, and my breath hitches—but Rhys’s still staring at the sky. On his back, his hand rests on his flat stomach, a content smile on his face.

Staring at him, I drag my fingernails over my now swollen nipple. Licking away the sand and drying water from one finger, I return my wet fingers to my nipple and circle a bit more. It feels good—wonderful. And Rhys’s chest rises and falls gently with his breathing. I watch him as I pinch my nipple, the sensation shooting right down between my legs. I do it again, and again, my other hand going lazily down my stomach as my legs open.

I think the motion catches his attention. He turns his head, and his violet eyes go dark as I touch myself. “Fuck.” His words are half a whisper as my fingers find my clit and make a few small circles. My back scrunches and arches, and I squeeze my breast in time with my fingers—

And then his body is on me, his body sun-hot and heavy.

He takes my other nipple int his mouth and bites down harshly. Pain, just shy of too much, shoots through me and makes me yelp—but my body had developed a pulse, and my fingers are going faster between my legs. He releases my nipple from his teeth, but only to suck and tease me, his tongue swirling around the hyper-sensitive flesh with agonizing attention, as if begging me to forgive him for the little-pain.

He sucks his way up my breast, up my chest, up my neck. He delivers a lot of attention there—and I can feel my own orgasm rising before his mouth finds mine. He kisses me with languid, wonderful kisses as I cum, his mouth eating my moans.

I grab at him, then, threading my fingers through his thick, wet hair. “I need to be inside of you.” And he looks at me with a complicated expression—adoration and lust and love melting together into his seeringly intense gaze.

“I love you.” Is all I can and want to say.

He enters me, filling my body in one luxurious thrust. I can tell he wants to go slow, like last night, and his rolls are simple and kind—but not what I want. Leading his face down onto me, I tried to show that, pushing up against his hips and licking my way into his mouth. When he keeps up his infuriating pace, I bite his lip, hard enough that I’m surprised when I don’t taste blood.

Instead, I taste his moan. He pulls out and slams back into me, and my head jerks back, and breaking away under my hair as my fingers scratch his skin.

He does it again and again, his hips swiveling with a demanding force, before he’s throwing my legs over his shoulder to get deeper. Between a smatter of filthy compliments and thrust punctuated I love yous—he finds his release, and then dives back in to give me another one.

* * *

We find our own happy version of domesticated bliss. And the weeks rolls by easily. I fall asleep with him every night. And there are nightmares, but he’s a light sleeper and more than capable of handling me when the panic hits and I attack. One time, he even let me, snarling some strange, hypnotic form of appreciation as I clawed his skin and tried to punch him before entering me. It had been the most violent sex we’d had to date—mostly because of me—and he bragged about his ‘love bites’ unashamedly to a few of his friends from the gym.

But mostly it was just us. I found a happy balance between work and Rhys. Mor and I finally had our double date—and Clara roared her approval over Rhys with the same loud, happy attitude that they took in everything but right-wing conservatism. Rhys bonded with Nicky over a tea party, and I finally got to sit down and half a talk to Cas during a weekly dinner with Azriel. We spent every night either at his place or mine, and I cleaned up the menu drawer because he always cooked. Elain even offered to give Rhy some new tattoos for a ‘family discount’—and everything was perfect. More perfect than I thought life could get.

I left work early, rushing through the traffic to get to the gym and barely made it there before the live announcement of who Rhys was going to fight made it on TV. The gym was full, but not humming with the usual workouts. Instead, everyone was gathered around the TV on the wall, the sound excited and expectant.

I see Rhys, whose noticed me. He’s talking to some new up-and-coming fighter, and I don’t think the poor guy notices he’s lost Rhys’s attention.

“Hey.” The new guys says, when I tuck myself into Rhy's arm.

“Hi.” I greet.

We all focus on the TV then as Cas yells for everyone to shut up. The announcer talks about Rhys’s career a bit, and footage of previous fights play on. Rhys’s grip tightens sharply as it plays over the infamous death-scene, but they thankfully have enough taste not to show the finishing blow.

Finally, the President of the MMA Fighting Association comes up and reminds everyone watching that one week from today, the championship fight will take place. He then makes a big show about opening an envelope that announces the challenger. And the name is read.

Trever Amaranthe.

The room falls silent. I’m the only one who doesn’t recognize the name. Everyone seems… shocked. Absolutely shocked.

Rhys untangles his hand from my waist and leaves my side. I don’t follow him—mostly because I recognize when he needs space. The room erupts into small conversations, little talks of ‘no fucking way’ and ‘this is bullshit, he’s not even a contender’ as I make my way over to a frozen Cas, who's now staring at the floor like he wants it to swallow him up.

I touch his arm. “Who is Amaranthe?” Because I thought they said it would be someone name Caputo or something similar.

Cas’s eyes are sad and glassy as he looks over to me. “He’s Frankie’s brother. That boy that died that night in the fight—they’re trying to make it a grudge match. But the kid shouldn’t even be in the ring with Rhys. He’s no match…” He paused. “Rhys’ll kill him.”

The last words weren’t meant literally—they couldn’t be—but it still sent my stomach soaring.

“Don’t ever say that again.” I said, using the same voice I used when Nicky had done something bad without meaning to. I squeezed his arm, kept the eye contact, and then left to go find Rhys.

He was in his loft, sitting in the dark. With his elbows on his knees and his head dropped into his hands—he looked like the night in the locker rooms after his last match. Like that night, he doesn’t acknowledge me as my heals eat up the distance between us. When I put my hands on his shoulders, he doesn’t move.

I bend down into a crouch, hoping it’ll make it harder for him to ignore me. “What can we do, Rhys?”

He lets out a huge gust of air, seeming to prolong the movement till his lungs were empty of everything. And then he lifted up his head and on of his big hand wrapped around the front of my neck. I watched him, watching me, as he drew me closer so his forehead could touch mine. “Let me hold you.” His aid, his voice raw with some kind of pain he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—share right now.

I kicked off my shoes as I rose my crouch, his hand leaving my neck as he lay back against his couch. He watched me take off my blazer, then take off my pants. He didn’t say a word, his mouth soft and his eyes broken as I quickly stripped out of everything. And then I crawled onto the couch, grabbing his head and forcing it onto my chest as I lay backwards.

“It makes sense now, the clause about Cas.” I murmured, as the hour passed us by. “Whoever drew up the contact knew you two—was looking to exploit your relationship by putting Cas’s finances on the line.” Which meant Rhys couldn’t back out of the fight—not without compromising Cas and h is beautiful lake-house.

One of his hands held my breasts in a light grip—but this moment was about comfort, not sex. I’d gotten naked because it had felt right to do so. Because he was vulnerable right now and I wanted to show him that I was too.

“Yes.”

And that’s all we said for a long, long while.

* * *

I frowned when the office door opened. It was well into midnight and Mor had promised she’d lock up behind her—but I was engrossed in work. Namely, trying to find a way to break the contract Rhys was under. But it was frustratingly air-tight.

Rhys filled up my office door. The sight of him, despite the dim light making his feature dim and murky, was unmistakable. For a while he just stared at me and the mess of my office before saying. “The door isn’t locked.” His voice is tense—reminding me of old half-arguments about how I needed to lock my front door and my car and my phone.

“Oops?” I asked.

“What are you working on?” He asked. He didn’t move from the doorway. It was sort of—menacing. In a hot way.

“Your fight contract.” I said, unashamed about it. Cas had gotten it into his head that this fight would somehow be good for Rhys—and had gotten it into Rhys’s head that it would be good, too. Like some kind of salvation-fight. I had tried arguing that talking was much better, but my words fell on deft ears with men who used their fists more than their tongues.

Rhys sighed. “Darling, let’s go home.”

I pouted at him, grabbing the file I had been looking over of a similar case and huddling it to my chest as if he would take it from me. “I’m not done yet.”

Despite still being out of the lamplight, I could see Rhys’s jaw clench. It was a sexy motion, causing the deep line of his shadowed cheek to shift and accentuate the masculine curves of his face. He was strong and menacing and more than a little pissed off—which made me more than a little aroused. And we stare at one another, refusing to back down like an old fashioned Mexican standoff.

Then finally he bursts from the door in a smooth, prowling motion. He stalks into the room and I huddle my files closer to me as he grabs my swivel chair and forced me to face him. Hovering over me, his breath smells a bit like whisky as he asks, “You need to do anything before I take you out of here?”

I lick my top lip, and his eyes drag on the motion. “Thought so.”

Then he’s picked me up, manhandling me right of my chair and onto his shoulder. The breath leaves my lung in an oomph, but I’ve suddenly got a perfectly delightful view of his ass, which I smack with absolute and vicious vigor as my files fall to the ground and he strides out of the room. “Barbarian!” I cackle, smacking his ass again.

He doesn’t release me until he’s shoving me into the seat of his car. In the driver’s side, thankfully. I don’t want to know how he got here—and I won’t ask. But he buckles me up and adjusts the seat to my preset. And his fingers graze over my breasts as he checks the seatbelt, as if his brand new car had something wrong with it.

“You’re bossy.” I say, unable to fight my smile.

“You’re stubborn.” He leans in to give me a kiss on the forehead, then strides over towards the passenger side so I can take us home.

* * *

“What’s going on, Feyre?” Rhys asks, putting his fork down.

He’d been talking about his fight with Trevor—trying to soothe me about the match tomorrow night—for the better part of an hour. Apparently ‘the kid’ had improved a lot, learning patience and a few new skills as he and Cas looked over new footage of Trevor’s fighting. But it was still clear, despite all his talk of techniques and momentum that Trevor was still picked to sell tickets, rather than because he was seriously matched up to Rhys’s skill. The MMA Leage was just trying to sell tickets. And Rhys’s face was plastered on the mainstream news, not just channels dedicated to sports.

I sighed, waving my hand in the air. “Just nervous, I guess. I don’t know how you aren’t.” I hope that was enough to change the conversation.

But Rhys is observant and he’s smart. His eyes narrow at my face like he knows I’m not telling him the whole truth, which makes me squirm. “What are you nervous about, then?” He asks. Like he’s humoring me.

I peeked up at him, then realized this conversation was going to come out, anyway. He had that stubborn tilt to his jaw. “He… Trevor looks like his brother.” I was worried that it would all come flooding back. I was worried the wound would open again.

“Ah.” He put his plate down on the coffee table before turning to me fully. His face is serious as he grabs mine and holds it gently in his hands. “When we met, we were two injured people, trying to keep the real out of our lives.” His words surprise me, and my mouth opens. But he keeps going. “I’ve never been a big believer in destiny, Feyre, but I didn’t even know I was missing something—or that I was slamming my damn head against the wall, going nowhere fast—until I met you. You’re… you’re it for me. You’re my soulmate.” My stomach plummeted at his words, and the fierce honesty in his face. “As sappy as it sounds, it’s god damn true. Nothing has ever been truer in my life. So no, I’m not worried about this fight. I might backslide, but I’ll heal from it. Like you’ll heal from it. And together, we’ll make something worth fighting for.”

I don’t think. I don’t let myself feel. I just lunge for him. Our teeth clack together painfully before he throws back his head into a laugh as I tear at his sweatpants. He takes off the shirt of his I’m wearing with ease, his fingers winding into my hair as I flow down his lean body to give him the best sign of commitment and love that I can. Because I’m not as good with my words as he is—not when I’m feeling so much. So I pleasure him. And I show him my love.

* * *

I forget that I’m wearing the shirt I am until Rhys’s devilish smile breaks across his face. Azriel had given it to me when we met up in the crowd outside of the stadium, and I think the cheeky little teenager had purposefully given me a size too small. The image of Rhys’s snarling face and raised hands is warped by how tightly it clings to me.

“Nice shirt.” Rhys says, his smile boyish and bad.

“It’s my new favorite.” I fling my hair over my shoulder, so he could see it in all of its proper glory.

A roll of nausea fills me for a second, and I have to push it aside. My nerves were out of control today. Before I can say anything, Max is taking up Rhys’s attention—and Cas comes from around the bend to talk to him about something sportys and motivating.

I give Rhys an air kiss, then make my way towards the seats. Elle is there, with Joe. Clara and Mor are sitting together, and Greyson is here. The only reason why Elain hadn’t come was because the stress of the fight would be had for her and the baby—her blood pressure was already sky rotting dangerously. But Azriel had that covered by decided to record the entire thing. It seemed everyone already made introductions with one anther, and there is an odd feeling of blending families that just feels—right. Mor is chatting and laughing with Rhys’s mom, Azriel has caught sight of Graysen and they’re lost in their own little world of statistics and techniques. Clara had latched onto Elle like they were old, old friends. And it felt—homey. And loving. And excited.

Another wave of nausea hits me. I realize it’s coming from the hot dogs being passed around, so I wave it away as I take my seat. I get swallowed up into a conversation with Joe and Sam before the announcer steps into the cage. I grow tense.

It was happening. This was really happening.

What if he gets hurt? What if he hurts Trevor badly?

“Feyre?” Mor leans over to me. “You’re white as a ghost, girl. What’s going on?”

I shake my head, refusing to look away from the announcer as his loud words fill up the space and hype up the audience. Azriel is roaring, his feet stomping against the ground as he tries to make himself heard over everyone else. Leaning over More, Elle hands me a bottle of water and a sympathetic smile. I take it gratefully, drowning it in a full heady gulps before focusing back on the announcer. He rolled out his, “Rhys ‘the Laaaaaady Killllllerr’ Night.”

The crowd went inside. Azriel went double-insane, rising to his feet and threatening to tear his shirt off like he was Hulk Hogan. Rhys’s mom, a usually subdued woman, is screaming between her cupped hands and Clara and Mor are both throwing up their arms.

Music blasts. Something from Disturbed. And then he comes in, striding down the center isle behind a dozen blond women in bikinis with high heels march in front of him. They stride with him into the ring, taking off his jacket and kissing his cheek and making a show out of pampering him. I strain to see his face clearly trough their milling crowd as everyone in the audience freaks out.

Rhys’s jaw in clenched. And his eyes—

He turns and looks directly at me, finding me in the crowd with little to no problem. And his jaw unclenches and something in his tight stance loosens.

The women fawn on him some more before leaving. The crowd takes their que and settles a bit, enough for the Announcer to yell, “Ladies and Gentleman, in the blue corner, we have a man set for revenge. He’s been waiting two years for his chance to take back his family’s honor…” I hissed, hating the announcer with everything in me. “I give you, Trevor ‘the Aaaaaaavennnnger’ Crispino!”

There’s a strange lull in the audience. Rhys’s fans fall silent. Our family falls silent. But even the non-diehard fans have grown tense. Trevor comes out to some loud, bass filled rap song without preamble and things feel—heavy.

There are a few more announcements before the two men are sent to their respective corners.

It’s funny how the worry can stay the same, even if the reason behind the worry is different. The last big fight I had ever been in, I’d been worried that the violence would be a trigger for me. Now I was worried it would be a trigger for Rhys. I was worried that hitting an all too-familiar face would drudge up old memoires. I was worried he’d get seriously hurt, not just physically, but emotionally.

Because even if Rhys walked away the victor—how could he actually win this fight?

The men meet in the middle. Rhys punches first, making Trevor wobble—but Trevor recovers quickly and spins into a kick that hit’s Rhys’s stomach. Rhys slams into the cage, his pain converting into rage as they trade blows. By the end of the first round, both men have taken and delivered and equally harsh about of damage. But still, it seems to me that Rhys is clearly the better fighter. I don’t know if it’s prejudice or the way they move—but Rhys is more fluid, more balanced than Trevor. His blows are more precise and seem to have a stronger impact. That, and he recovers much quicker.

In round two, Rhys comes out blazing. Whatever he had been holding back in the first round was unleashed for some reason—maybe because of Cas’s words between the break—but Rhys strikes fast and lands several kicks in quick suggestion that knocks Trevor to his knees—

And something changes.

Rhys just stands there. He stares blankly at Trevor as Trevor recovers from his wounds and gets up onto wobbling feet. It’s as if Rhys has given up the fight, going somewhere far, far away as Trevor takes the opportunity to use the two minutes remaining and round on Rhys with a harsh left, then a quickly jabbing right punch. The second punch is so hard Rhys’s head swivels to the side, and I see his mouth protector spit out towards the cage walls.

And then Rhys falls. And he’s pummeled. He doesn’t even protect himself from the raining blows, he’s just laying there, taking the punishment like he needs it. Cas’s screaming on the sidelines with the same mad furry that Azriel is—and they’re both yelling at Rhys to tap out. I turn to the ref, who’s not stopping it.

It’s the longest two minutes of my life.

By the time the bell sounds, Rhys is a bloody mess and I want to yank all my hair out. The crowd is eerily silent—the entire stadium watching Rhys stumble his way to the end of the cage, so Cas’s furious words of ‘what the hell are you dong!’ roar through the stadium unchallenged. It seems everyone has accepted that this’ll go down the way it’s going down. But I can’t. I won’t.

As the final round starts, it looks like it’ll begin the way the second one ended. And I grab onto Sam’s shoulders as I stand—and then I scream. Wordlessly and furiously I just fucking scream. It’s an aching sound in a silent stadium filled only with the sound of injury—and Trevor’s head jerks up, his eyes going wide as he stops for five seconds to give the crazy screaming woman a look.

“I thought you were going to fight!” I scream.

There’s a single minute left to the match. But a minute can change a lot. A minute can be the amount of time it takes for a man to choose how he wants to live—a minute can dictate when a child has seen and felt and experienced enough and decides the pain will end—a minute can be enough for a man with a broken spine to die.

Rhys shoves away Trevor’s shocked form and gets up onto is feet. He’s dodgy and wobbly, but he gets in a good punch to Trevor’s ribs. My hands dig into Graysen’s shoulders as Rhys tackles Trevor to the ground and they grapple there.

The ten seconds on the clock turn to zero. The men untangle. And then Trevor’s arm is grabbed by the ref and lifted up into the air. The roar is muted, hardly an echo of the rapturous screams that had started the fight—but Rhys, still on the floor, lifts up his bloody face to the ceiling and smiles.

* * *

I’m a bit terrified that Rhys will chase me away as I make my way to the locker room—but there is hardly enough space for me to even fit, much less for me to be noticed. Dozens of people are milling around, asking questions, taking statements, snapping pictures. Two of the bikini women are at his side, snuggling up to him as pictures are taken for marketing.

If this was what it looked like when someone lost—I’d hate to imagine what Trevor was going through at the moment.

I stay through it all, hoping to give my silent support when nausea fills me up. I become quiet a spectacle, then, puking my guts up in a trashcan flung at me when it’s clear that I was going to hurl. And then hands were grabbing my hair and pulling it from my face, and a familiar warm body was wrapping around me as the sickness left as quickly as it had come.

“Come on, darling.” He helped me up from my crouch and kissed the top of my head. “Let’s go home.

People started yelling. They asked who I was—what was going on—his thoughts on the fight—asked if he was going to try winning back the Championship and just about everything in between as we strode out of the locker room and then out of the stadium.

* * *

Things were not all right. Rhys was not all right.

Two days after the fight and I finally managed to get him to take the sedatives Cas had been pushing at Rhys. Not just because Rhys was acting like a robot—going through the motions of living, rather than living. He hadn’t pushed me away physically, but he’d retreated to a place I couldn’t get to him, no matter what I did or what I said.

The doctor had looked at him and cleared him. He had a fractured cheekbone and a lot of swelling, but that was the extent of his injuries. Everything else was emotional. And despite the fact that never once told me to leave him alone—he almost didn’t need to. He left the room when I came in. He didn’t talk or touch me—but when I tried touching him, he flinched. And it tore at me. It shouldn’t—I knew the vague turmoil that must be going off inside of him—but it still tore at me.

I have no idea if it’s selfish of me or not to leave his apartment or give him space. I just know he doesn’t acknowledge it when I do.

I go to Mor’s but have to stop halfway there to vomit. And when I walk into her apartment, I nearly vomit again from the smell of takeout filling her apartment. Clara is lounging on the couch in a robe, and Mor are nowhere to be seen as I struggle to hold my shit together.

“Wow—you look awful.” Clara said, turning off the TV—some reality show—that she’d been watching. “What’s going on?”

“Just—sick.” I muttered. “Can you take the food away, please?”

She tisked but did as I asked, then came over to help me towards the couch. “Let me guess, your like, crazy tired all the time and you have massive heartburn and everything either smells phenomenal or disgusting?”

I glanced at her, confused. “Are you… psychic or something?” Mor had dated a psychic once. She said she liked their ‘intuitive ability to suck my dick’.

Clara laughed. “No, no. I’ve just been pregnant before.”

My world stopped spinning for the case of two heartbeats—and then everything was spinning too fast. “What?”

“Yeah.” She patted my shoulder. “Sometimes I still wonder what my life would be like if I kept the darling thing—but, you know.” She shrugged, then took a look at my face. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

“I—I need to get tested.” I had stopped taking my birth control pills when Rhys and I had broken up after his last fight. I’d only been fucking women at the time, and it had seemed unnecessary. But I hadn’t started back up again, had I? And we didn’t use condoms and… “I need a test.”

“Honey.” Clara said sadly. “Do you really?”

* * *

I find the answer to my solution on Google. It was easier than I though it would be, contacting a newly minted Champion, and he’s friendly enough when he hears that I’m female to listen to what I have to say. And then he corrects me. Not the Champion. Apparently he publicly renounced the title and belt two days after the match—spouting some shit about unresolved issues and the need to prove himself after what happened to Frankie.

I lay it on him then, really, really going into my rant before he finally shuts me up with a, “God damn woman. You know that’s all to sell tickets, right?” I pause long enough that he continues speaking. “I just wanted the fight for exposure, lady. Get my name out there. I never expected to win—and me and my family never held a grudge against Rhys, not ever. We told him that after the funeral. What happened to Frankie could have started ‘cus of any punch, at any time. Hell, even in training we were thinking he’d pop. I was furious with him for a long time—but he did what he did. It’s over. And none of it’s on Rhys.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. And I don’t want a championship I didn’t earn. Wouldn’t be right. So why the hell are you calling me?”

I told him. And Trevor meets me outside of Rhys’s gym, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He was sporting his minor injuries with pride. “This the place, then?”

“Yeah. Go up.” I push him a little into the direction of the warehouse. “Talk to him. Go, go.”

“Fine, woman. Jeesh.” He shoots me a weird look but pauses before hitting the buzzard so he could be let into the gym. “You really love the guy, hu?”

“Go.” I snarl.

The second he’s buzzed in I lose all the braveness I’ve been holding onto. I rush into my car and hightail it out of there before I can figure out what, exactly, I’m trying so hard to run away from. When Mor calls as I’m already home—but I don’t question why she wants me to go to a grief counseling meeting—I just agree to meet here there.

The meeting is at the basement of a community center, and they’ve been meeting there under Dr. Kiestler—Mark, please call me Mark—for over ten years. The people have come and gone, sharing their grief and getting out their stories. Going had never helped me, though. There was no ‘I killed on purpose and I’m grieving for it’ support group. But still, I meet Mor.

We sit in the back and don’t speak, but the stories are a comfort. The opening of old wounds, the sharing of emotions, Mark and the other’s kind words of forgiveness and empathy and love and support all wash over me and make me feel a hell of a lot better. I silently thank Mor for the choice as the meeting progresses, holding her hand tightly in mine as I bow my head and listen to everyone’s words.

Mark announces a new member wanting to speak. There a bit of silence, a chorus of greetings, and then—“A smart woman told me to come here months ago.” My head jerks up, and I look at Rhys standing in front of the podium. He’s beat to shit, his face swollen and bruised and cut, one of his arms in a sling. But through the narrow puff of one damaged eye, I meet his gaze. “But I was too stubborn to listen to her at the time.”

I shiver, then look at Elain as she slides up on my other side. She must have driven Rhys here.

Rhys inhales deeply, and I turn to look over at him, drawn to him.

“About two years ago I killed a man. I didn’t intend to, but I happened anyway. I’m a fighter and it happened in the cage. The ref ruled it a clean hit, but it doesn’t change the fact that it was my hand that dealt the blow that killed him.

“I’ve spent the last two years of my life under a cloud of guilt and shame. I went on, going through the motions every day, pretending like I was somehow preparing myself from another fight instead of still in one. I grieved for the more, but I also grieved for what happened to me, that day. For the me I lost. And that’s two years I can’t get back.” He pauses and looks down at his hand inside the sling. “Then today I was given a gift. I thought what I needed was to move on. Live on. Keep doing what I was doing like none of it could touch me. But today, she gave me the gift of forgiveness and I hadn’t realized that’s what I needed until…” A tear tracked down the puffy swell of his eye. “Until I realized what I needed what to accept what I had done, and share it, and live in it, and forgive myself, too.”

I was crying too. Huge, rolling tears that I tried to smother as I put my hand over my mouth. I noticed Trevor, then, standing off to the side, his arms crossed and a strange look on his face as he took in Rhys’s words.

Rhys raps his knuckles on the podium. “And I guess that’s it.”

A chorus of ‘thank you’s rises up. And then comments. But I’m on my feet, rushing towards him. He comes down to greet me, grunting a little as my body flings itself onto his and I hold him as tight as I possibly can.

* * *

Six Months Later

* * *

I’m a bit confused—and more than a little testy—when I get the call from Rhys to head towards the gym as soon as I can. I had to buy myself a milkshake just to calm me down—since the things were like crack and the only substance I could find to tamper down my mood swings. Well, no, Rhys’s cock was also a good way to lower the mood swings, but because I held him in fault for a vast majority of them, it didn’t count as much as milkshakes.

I was still sucking angrily at the tube when I waddled my way towards his gym. I hadn’t been in the last month, since both of us had agreed to move into my apartment to pack things up before moving into the house we wanted to buy. He’d told me the side entrance was open, where the garage was, and I flicker on the lights before freezing. Because this was not the garage. This was something… else.

The floors had mats on them, a light grey color that was different than the harsher display of black mats and concrete on the gym floor. A few heavy bags and punching bags lay against the wall, along with some gross looking rubber dummies with generic vague male faces on them. The walls were a tasteful and light lavender, with motivational quotes on one side, and a massive wall of mirrors on the other. But my eyes were drawn to the huge plaque on the wall that read: Women’s Annex.

“This is… new.” I say, when I can part my lips from my milkshake’s straw.

Rhys is standing in the doorway of a room that hadn’t existed a few weeks ago, smiling gently at me. “Is it safe to come closer?”

I waved my milkshake threateningly at him, before deciding it was much better to taste it then to wave it. “Maybe. What is this?” There was something soft and inviting but practical about the work space—which was so different from the uber-macho manliness of the gym on the other side of the wall.

“It’s a women’s defense center. I worked it out with Janna over the battered women’s shelter that you volunteer at. I’m going to teach classes three nights a week, after the main gym closes. I’m still working out getting female instructors to help ease the tension, but it should be open within a week.” He took a cautious step forward. “That smaller frown tells me that getting up on your feet might be worth the surprise?”

“Hmmm.” My milkshake done, I threw it in a trashcan near by and walked towards him. He had a hopeful look on his face, which turned panicked as I struggled to get down onto my knees.

“Darling—Darling! It’ll be impossible to get you up—”

“Shh and lay down with me.” He helped me onto my back, and then the massive protrusion that was now my stomach pointed up towards the sky. The flat mats felt divine on my aching back. “I like it. It’s thoughtful and sweet and perfect. And I want to help with the classes as soon as…”

“As soon as you’re not a balloon?” He teased. He lay beside me, propped up on one elbow so he could face me. His hand lifted up my pregnancy shirt, smoothing over drum-tight skin filled with stretch marks. His fingers unerringly found my popped out belly-button, which he tapped gently, before rubbing the belly. He’d do it until he felt a kick, I knew, and then he’d do mock fight battles with the twins inside, making stupid ‘pew pew pew’ noises and ‘aahhh, he wins again!’ yell-whispers that would keep my laughing until I cried—and then peed myself. Because apparently that’s what I did now.

“Yes. As soon as I’m not a balloon.” I put my hand on his hand and stared up at the ceiling. “Maybe it’ll help me loose some weight.” I was still pissed about my figure. I always been vain—but I was never so vain as well I had no right to be vain.

He hummed gently, knowing better by now then to argue with me. Pregnancy had made me very, very fierce. And then weepy for being fierce.

So instead, he leaned over and gave me a languid kiss. And then the horny came up, devouring everything. I clutched at him, demanding without preamble that if he didn’t Christian the room with me—we were breaking up. With a devilish chuckle, his clever fingers flipped away the pregnancy pants and he helped me take them off between settling between my legs. The only position we had now was missionary and doggy style—but even after six months, I'm not bored. I could never get bored of him. Especially not as he gave me his appreciative comment on how wet and dripping and tight I was before lifting up my hips carefully and sliding into me.

I moaned at the sensation, unashamedly going limp and letting him do all the work. He teased my overly swollen breasts in his hands as he worked his hips, hitting me deeper and deeper and deeper until—

I burped. No, I didn’t just burb, I belched. A long, loud, crazy bass of a sound that echoed around the new room—

Horrified, I slapped my hands over my face and look at him. My hips were held up in his lap and mostly everything was belly, his shoulders, and his own wide violet eyes before—

His roaring laughter filled the space. And I joined in, squeezing him with every wheeze until the heartburn demanded that I stop. He had grown limp, which he didn’t seem to mind as he fell onto the floor beside me, his pants getting tangled around his legs as laughter shivered up and down his form.

“I love it, you know.” I said, staring at the ceiling. I felt stupid, my shirt up around my collar, my huge belly out there for anyone to see, my legs splayed open because that helped the ache of my hips. But it was perfect. He was perfect, curled up onto his side and laughing.

“And I love you.” He wheezed through tears. He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Now, how the hell are we getting you off the floor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a freaking beast of a FF and it needs a bit more editing--but walla!

**Author's Note:**

> Huge disclaimer--one you probably realized by now--I know nothing about lawyering or MMA Fighting. But the drama's good, right?


End file.
